Intimate in Our Own Way
by mavors4986
Summary: Ten years into their marriage, Anne and Gilbert rediscover each other. After ten years of hurt and misunderstanding, they will have to learn how to achieve intimacy, and how to take pleasure from it. This is an insert to Our Own Way, beginning after chapter 10 "A Private Night Out", and takes places in the Doctor's Wife series.
1. Monday

**Dear readers,**

 **This is an insert that belongs in Our Own Way, between chapter 10 "A Private Night Out" and the chapter that will soon follow. It could probably sort of stand on its own, but I would still recommend reading the Doctor's Wife stories for it to make sense, seeing as its conext is all in AU. Just in case, you can find the Doctor's Wife series here:**

Part I, The Doctor's Wife: s/12172184/1/The-Doctor-s-Wife  
Part II, Searching for Anne: s/12234997/1/Searching-for-Anne  
Part III, Our Own Way: s/12833631/1/Our-Own-Way

 **Thank you for reading!**

* * *

"Are they asleep?" asked Anne. Gilbert shut the bedroom door noiselessly and nodded. There was an appetite in his eyes that was overwhelming, perhaps a little frightening, but also a bit thrilling. Her pulse thrummed deafeningly in her own ears, and her breathing sped up.

Last night had been nice, but then, they hadn't exactly been locked in the bedroom. In the safety of the great outdoors, she had benefited from the reassuring knowledge that things wouldn't escalate too far, too fast.

And to help matters, Gilbert had let the mood build up organically. After an evening of twirling around the grass, sharing the dance floor only with the trees around them, Anne had been more than delighted to follow him into the barn. They'd sat on the hay and kissed some more, until their air supply ran short, until their heads were spinning until their until the skin of her chin and above her lip felt raw.

That was all very well, but Anne knew that Gilbert wanted more. _She_ wanted more, but wanting and doing were two very different things. Her trepidation was steadily winning over her desire, and she felt her posture becoming defensive. It was an exercise in self control not to cross her arms, but rather to stand straight with her chest out.

Gilbert held out his hand. This was an invitation she could accept: she approached him and took it, her eyes level with his broad shoulder.

"Anne." She looked up into deep hazel pools. "Last night, I told you I'd do anything you want."

"Yes." It was meant as a question, but came out as a statement instead.

"Well, it also goes for what you don't want." She blinked in confusion, so he explained: "I won't do anything you don't like. I want everything I do to make you feel good."

"Gil," she whispered. "That's sweet, but everything? I don't think that's possible-"

"It is. I just have to take certain measures." He squeezed her hand before releasing it. "I won't do anything without asking for permission first."

"Anything? But, Gil..." Anne protested and grabbed him by the upper arms, wishing for the self-assured, confident Gilbert to return to her.

"Anything," he insisted, making no move to hold her. "Every touch, every kiss, every single gesture will require your approval."

"It sounds so... tedious," she lamented, gripping him by the shirt. "You'll drive yourself crazy."

"It's necessary. And the only thing driving me crazy will be not knowing whether you're alright."

"I know I'll be alright, Gil."

He took a step back, his eyes burning with determination. "I've hurt you before, and I had no idea. That's never happening again. Anne, it's either this, or... or I'll stay clear of you."

She gaped at him. "You can't be serious."

"Try me." His gaze was fierce: her stubborn man, her staunch protector.

"Gil..."

Seeing that she was on her way to being swayed, he closed the gap between them. "It doesn't have to be a bad thing," he suggested quietly. "It can even be... exciting. There's no reason for it to impede- we could still reach a satisfactory level of intimacy. I mean, last night was... good, was it not?"

"More than good," she agreed, her face flushed, the wrinkle between her eyes smoothing itself out. He answered in kind with a small smile.

"So - if you're willing - we might give this a try. Go about it a different way."

"Well...alright," she conceded, and was rewarded by the blaze in his eyes. "I suppose we could give it a try."

Gilbert lowered his brow to hers. "I want to carry you to the bed," he rasped, his hot breath caressing her face. She tensed, but only for a fraction of a second: he'd said carry, nothing further. Anne was beginning to appreciate this new approach to intimacy.

"Please do," she breathed against his cheek. Swept off her feet, she clung to his neck while strong arms transported her across the room. He set her down on the edge and sat next to her, the side of his leg pressed against hers. His arm reached behind her, and a light pressure at the base of her braided hair made her scalp tingle in the most pleasant way.

"May I?" he asked, his fingers traveling down to the white ribbon holding the red flames of her hair. Anne nodded her consent. The ribbon was tugged, the gesture excruciatingly slow, until it finally fell untied. Cautious fingers caught the ends of her hair. They moved slowly, carefully deconstructing the intricately designed plait, handling each lock as if it was made of precious material.

It felt oddly like being undressed, every strand loosened a discarded garment. Anne's breathing quickened. She marvelled at how such an innocent act could offer such a promising thrill, at how his fingers could set her skin on fire without even touching it.

Gilbert sat back and admired his work: the glorious, red mane had been freed, its wavy tendrils framing her flushed face, her grayish-green orbs shining with desire. His chest inflated with pride and arousal.

"I'm going to kiss you now," he leaned in so that their lips were nearly grazing. "Is that alright?"

She was barely able to nod before pressing her mouth to his. She anchored herself to his shoulders as his finger threaded through her loose hair, touched her upper back, traveled down her spine. She felt a surge of pleasure when his hands came to encompass the sides of her ribs, and groaned in disappointment when he pulled back.

He chuckled a little at her protest. "I'd like to remove your stockings, if I may."

"Yes." Anything to get him to touch her some more. Gilbert wasted no time getting on the floor: he kneeled before her and lifted her right foot. Cradling her ankle delicately in one hand, he removed her slipper with the other, then let his fingers roam up until they hooked on the edge of her garment.

He looked up at her with a devilishly handsome grin, and peeled the item off at the speed at which a glacier would melt. It was an odd combination of being tortured and cherished through which Anne muddled as he repeated the process on her left side, until finally both her legs were bare.

Gilbert held up her foot like a prize in his hands. "May I?" he asked.

Anne had no idea what it was he meant to do, but nodded anyway. He seemed to hesitate for a beat, then bent his head to kiss the tip of her foot. Anne squirmed and gripped at the bedsheets, throwing her head back in ecstasy when his mouth closed over her toe, sucking in a most delicious and sinful manner, his tongue caressing her in a place no one had ever thought to explore.

How wrong she had been, to ever think a foot was just a foot. His thumb traced patterns on her sole, where all the nerves in her body appeared to be concentrated. When his teeth nibbled teasingly at her toe, she thought she might jump out of her skin. Not knowing what it was she was seeking exactly, she pushed into his hand, frantic for release, driven by need. He obliged, pressing his thumb now more forcefully in the most tender part beneath her instep, the one that never touched the ground when she walked, and her breath caught: stars exploded before her eyes, and she let herself fall back.

As her senses gradually returned, Anne took a moment to appreciate the awkwardness of her position: half on the bed, half off, her right foot on the floor. Gilbert gently lowered her left foot to the ground: she craned her neck in time to see him stand up.

"I had no idea that was possible," she panted, righting herself as he sat down next to her.

"Did you like it?" he asked, smirking like the cat who'd caught the canary.

"Like it? Gil, that was just..." she sighed.

A low rumble of laughter shook his chest at her enthusiastic response. "There's more where that came from," he promised. "Anytime you want. Though, perhaps not right this minute."

She nodded and dared to meet his gaze when she asked: "What about you?"

He raised an eyebrow. "What about me?"

"Surely, you'll be wanting..."

He smiled reassuringly. "You don't have to do anything that makes you uncomfortable."

Anne nodded. "I wish I could- it's just that... I'm not sure I'm quite ready to- er...take care of you. At the moment."

"Then we'll wait. We'll build up to it, little by little."

She bit her lip. "You're sure you won't mind? What if it takes forever?"

Gilbert sustained her stare. "Then we'll take forever. Together."


	2. Tuesday

Kissing was delightful, decided Gilbert with a sigh. His lips matched Anne's perfectly, and the way she pressed against him, all softness and desire and need, made him feel ready to burst with pleasure. He was lightheaded from the lack of oxygen (how long their mouths been welded, he had no idea) but refused to stop. How could they stop, when it felt so good, and made them so close?

With the new rules in place, Gilbert was learning to trust that Anne would stop him, should he do anything that hurt her, or made her uncomfortable. Still, he was not able to lose himself completely: he couldn't help but remain in tune with her physical reactions, voluntary or not. A particular gesture was puzzling him now - the way she held her right hand out to the side carefully.

He wrenched his lips from hers, panting for air, finding no sign of displeasure on her face. "Gil...?" Her eyes were unfocused and glazed over with lust.

"Is your hand bothering you?" he asked, still out of breath.

She grimaced. "No, but you probably don't want to touch it. I'm afraid I've rather made a mess of your hair, in the back."

Confused, he eyed her sweaty palm. A closer examination revealed that it was not perspiration from which her skin glistened, but the pomade with which his unruly brown curls had been tamed into neat waves.

"I forgot myself there for a while," she admitted with a rueful smile. "I'm sorry, Gil - I'm sure it can be fixed."

He grasped her wrists gently, preventing her from reaching behind his head. "Don't worry about it. Give me a minute." He released her and stood up.

Had she offended him? Anne wondered, coming out of her daze as he walked away. He was always so careful about his hair. Perhaps he was vexed that she'd mussed it? The gesture hadn't been thought out, she'd merely reached up for the pleasure of touching him. It wouldn't be the first time she would regret a thoughtless impulse...

She watched in surprise as he leaned over the basin, reached for the jug on the washstand and emptied its contents in one swift gesture over his head.

"You don't happen to keep a bath sheet in the room, do you?" he asked from where he stood hunched, dripping into the basin.

Anne jumped up and searched frantically for a sheet, a cloth, anything: she found a washcloth and set it in his hand.

"Thanks." He quickly pressed some water from his eyes before running the cloth briskly over his hair. Anne felt herself growing parched as she appreciated the grace of his beautifully arched body, drinking in the sight of his well-defined hind quarters stretched against the fabric of his trousers, admiring how his arms moved with dexterous precision for a task as menial as towelling himself dry.

"There," he righted himself up. "Pomade free." Anne flushed furiously at being caught staring, but wouldn't avert her gaze. The man in front of her was far too tantalizing: tall and unashamed, dabbing at his cheeks and neck with the damp cloth. His hair, much darker when soaked, had lost most of its curl from the dousing: it stood up haphazardly in sections, and her fingers itched to smooth it down. More deliciously tormenting yet was the look on his face - the absolute smugness of his grin, for he knew she was staring at him like a dog eyed a steak. He stood proudly before her, all-too-aware of his own appeal, no doubt.

 _Anne, for goodness' sake, snap out of it! He's staring at you. Prove to him that you still have your wits about you. Show him_ _that you_ _aren't reduced to being a blundering idiot at the sight of a good looking man._

"Your shirt will get soaked now."

The twinkle in his eyes sparkled mischievously at her.

 _Well...that'll do._

"Is that a request?"

"I'm sorry?"

He pitched his voice lower, and his mouth was no longer twisted in a grin: "Do you want me to take off my shirt?"

The husky tone had its desired effect: her throat went dry, and her eyes widened. "You... uh, you probably should."

"Because it'll get wet."

 _His eyes are burning me. What am I feeling? Is this delight or terror?_

"Yes."

 _Delight: definitely delight. He can see right through me, I'm naked to him...and the sensation is intoxicating._

"Not because you want me to."

 _What are we talking about?_

"Anne?"

He waited for her to blink, and for the light of intelligence to return to her glazed eyes. "Tell me you want it, and I'll do it."

She blinked again in rapid succession, obviously lost.

"The shirt, Anne."

"Oh." She shut her jaw, which had been hanging slack, and swallowed. "Yes - I wouldn't mind. If you took it off, that is - please."

It was garbled and uncharacteristically inarticulate, but Gilbert would accept it as a clear demand. His easy smirk returned as he undid the trail of buttons, and peeled off the fabric that had gotten slightly damp at the collar and shoulders.

"You should probably go without your undershirt, as well," reasoned Anne, hoping that the thirst in her voice wasn't coming through at the same frightening intensity at which she felt it.

If Gilbert heard it, he didn't mind: merely pushed his suspenders from his shoulders and removed the white undershirt. He presented himself to her, half in the nude, as though he had inhibitions at all. Would she dare do this for him?

 _Not tonight._

Would her body have the same effect on him, that his was having on her?

 _Heavens, I hope so: it's magnificent. He's beautiful._

Gilbert Blythe from the Island, friend and classmate to many, had been the most wonderful specimen as far as male human youths: the body of an Adonis, paired with the confidence of knowing how he was perceived by the other sex, easily made him the most attractive boy ever to have grown from Avonlea's earth and water.

Dr. G. J. Blythe, husband and father, was resplendent in his own right. He wasn't twenty anymore; thirty had come and gone. But still, even in times of loneliness and misery, Anne had never had eyes for anyone but him. Remembering his concerns that perhaps she was more physically attracted to Jack, or even Kenneth, made her bite back a grin.

"And pray, do tell what has you so amused?" Gilbert asked sardonically, though the smouldering in his eyes would not be extinguished by insecurity. That was how strong her gorgeous man was.

"You," she said, giving free reign to her smile. "To think that I could ever find anything more attractive than your body... well, frankly, it's laughable."

Pleasure blazed in his eyes. "I'm very glad to hear that."

Anne licked her lips. She wanted to touch: she was certain he wouldn't mind. Still, she extended him the same courtesy with which he treated her: "May I?"

A short nod was all she needed: Anne stepped up to him and brought a hand to his torso. His pectoral muscle spasmed, from the cool of her hand or from the very nature of her touch, she couldn't tell. His skin was surprisingly hot, and she could feel his heart racing, strong as an ox's. Her other hand joined the first in symmetry, and they both inched up, caressing his collarbone on the way. One settled on his shoulder, holding on firmly as the other travelled on, her major digit tickling his neck, grazing his jaw, tracing a light pattern on his cheek, circling his temple.

At long last, her fingers threaded through his hair, and his lips reached to meet hers halfway. His hands steadied her as hers continued its exploration: his sodden locks yielded to her touch like silk, no longer dripping, but still fairly wet. Anne leaned further in yet, unable to get close enough, and barely registered that they'd tumbled onto the bed. She rolled them around blindly so that she was on top and gasped: "Trousers. Off. Please. Now."

Gilbert's jerky movements spoke the same language of arousal and clumsy need as he shifted against her, somehow managing to locate the buttons of the offending garment. He found that his arms hadn't the strength to properly undo them against her weight, and even if they had, his fingers were shaking too badly to complete the task. Growing impatient, Anne sat up to lend her own hands. In the blink of an eye, he was unbuckled and shucked down to his underwear and socks.

A hint of fear worked its way past her bravado now, a sign Gilbert could not miss, even in the heat of the moment. He made to sit up, but her weightless hand kept him pinned to the mattress.

"Stay here. Just let me put out the candles." Anne pushed off him and went about the task quickly, hastening to return to the bed where laid the incredible, incredulous, mostly naked man.

Gilbert couldn't believe what was happening. Only in his wildest dreams had Anne ever gripped the underwear at his waist, asked him for permission to remove it. He had fantasized many times of her dainty fingers undoing the buttons at his crotch, but not even in his imagination (turned vivid by necessity) had he dared to feel her touch his hidden parts with her stare.

A tentative hand brushed where her eyes had been, and his eager shaft twitched with anticipation, making her jump back a bit. He wanted to apologize, to explain that he wasn't at all in control of the muscles there, but his voice was lodged somewhere in his throat. Gilbert began to panic, sure that all progress they'd made was annihilated, when her voice reached his ears.

"Will you show me, please?"

He could do nothing but stare at her, naked and vulnerable, attracted and terrified. What was left for him to show? He was at her mercy, entirely without defence before her. What part of him was there yet to see?

"Show you?" Gilbert managed to croak, trying to sit up - a task made difficult by his own underwear constraining his ankles, and he had to flop on his side to gain enough leverage to sit up.

"How to...please you." She looked at him expectantly. "I'm not quite ready to do it myself, but if you don't mind me watching - I would very much like to learn."

 _Ah._ That was another story altogether.

"I'm a very good student: I doubt you'll have to do it more than once."

His silence was damning: Anne knew she'd taken things too far. "Or, we don't have to. Of course, we shan't do anything that displeases you." _Vile girl,_ she chastized herself. It hadn't sounded so obscene in her head - what had she been thinking?

"Anne." Could he? It was odd and almost shameful...but not quite."Nothing can displease me, if you like it that much." Of this, he was quite convinced. "If you want to look, then look."

He grabbed himself before his courage waned, and kept his eyes on her as he moved his hand, using slow, bold strokes at first. Anne watched, transfixed on the act, her eyes as wide as they ever got. In the darkness of the unlit room, she could only see his outline shadowed against the moonlight, but she could feel the heat radiating from his face, the veins bulging against his throat for the effort, the vibration in his thighs as they rocked with urgency.

Gilbert expected shame to take over him anytime. There was a modicum of embarrassment in his pleasure, but mostly, he felt arousal possessing him in effervescent tingles all over his body, on his skin, everywhere inside him. She was witnessing his happiest little death. The self-comforting gestures which had left him with an aftertaste of loneliness and isolation in the past had now become a love poem, he recited to her with his heavy breaths and accelerating thrusts. A loud gasp escaped him as he released himself over his legs and in his hand.

When his senses returned to him, Anne was still staring at him, her eyes shining against her shadowed face.

"Gil," she breathed, a hand on her throat. "That was... incredible. You are so very beautiful."

Blood rushed back to his face, and he leaned to reach the damp washcloth discarded carelessly at the foot of the bed, to wipe himself clean. The mattress shifted next to him, and her hand closed over his sore bicep. She deposited sweet kisses on his shoulder; one assuring him of her unwavering affection, one thanking him for his private gift to her, one that told him not to be ashamed or embarrassed for sharing himself so freely with her.

Gilbert took her hand in his own and kissed it in return, speaking of his everlasting love for her.

* * *

 **PelirrojaBiu : Glad I still have the ability to surprise ;)**

 **oz diva : Ah, yes, there most definitely was some research done for this! More on that soon :)**

 **OriginalMcFishie : Yes, there will! Hopefully not too slow, as I'm alternating between this story, Our Own Way and Haunt Me :)**

 **NotMrsRachelLynde : Slow build ups are becoming my MO now!**

 **Lavinia Maxwell** **: I have never actually experienced this is real life, but I did dream of it once...**

 **elizasky** **: Yes, Gilbert might even be going a bit overboard to some extent, but he is going in the right direction!**


	3. Wednesday

**Thank you so much for all your kind and encouraging reviews. I hope this chapter lives up to your expectations! Happy reading :)**

* * *

Anne stomped down the path, the two empty buckets she toted clacking violently against each other, her boots punishing the dirt beneath them with every step. She placed one of the pails on the ground and activated the pump with more force than necessary, sending the jet of water several inches beyond the diameter of the recipient.

Pushing the handle more gently would have been the reasonable solution, but Anne was in no mood to be reasonable or gentle: instead, she moved the pail a bit further and pumped furiously: the aim was correct, but the water pressure was too strong, and the bucket tipped over.

A lion wouldn't have matched her mad growl. She kicked the bucket, watched it roll lazily two feet away. Picked up the second bucket: tossed it as far as it would go, which turned out to be smack in the middle of the flowerbed. Left with nothing else to kick or throw, Anne paced about restlessly, working a hole in the grass. She wanted to _throttle_ Gilbert Blythe.

It did not escape her attention that she'd had this very thought in this very place many times: as a young girl, she'd practically lived off her violent urges toward the boy with the smug grin. The irony that Anne was now acting like the child she'd been then was not lost on her either.

And while she was dredging up history, another point to score: Gilbert had been (mostly) innocent then, as he was (mostly) innocent now. Technically, he hadn't done anything wrong. And that precisely was the problem: he hadn't done _anything._

Since waking up an hour before dawn that morning, Anne had resigned herself: today, she would show Gilbert the physical attention and affection he deserved. Watching him sleep, brown curls tumbling on his forehead, a light purr of a snore escaping his parted lips, she prepared what she would do, what she would say. How she would caress his face, and let her hands work their way along his neck to his shoulders, then continue their downwards trajectory to his torso, tracing his stomach lightly, further still until reaching his private appendage, which was already standing at attention now underneath the sheets.

Just thinking of it made her flush: would he like it? Could he appreciate her touch as much as he'd enjoyed his own last night? She was itching to try now, but it felt wrong - a bit like stealing, taking advantage of his state of unconscious. So, she'd let him sleep, appreciating the easy rise and fall of his chest, the elegant shape of his hand curled beside his head on the pillow.

Finally, his breath caught: he groaned and shifted, yawned and moved his head. Blinking up at her, he'd smiled sleepily. "Mmm. Morning."

"Good morning to you," she breathed in what she'd hoped was a sultry tone. His eyes popped wide open, and he sprung up in a sitting position.

"Ready to start the day?" He stood up without waiting, giving Anne a splendid view of his naked buttocks.

"I was thinking - maybe, we could stay in bed a little longer?" She toyed coyly with the ribbon in front of her nightshirt.

"Why, did you not get enough sleep?" Gilbert stepped into his underwear, pulling it up briskly.

He didn't. Even. Look. Back.

"No. I'm fine." Anne swallowed back her disappointment as she stood up, and started to make the bed. Maybe he hadn't read the signals she'd been emitting, or maybe he was just in a hurry to use the wash room.

He slipped on his robe with practiced efficiency. "I'll go see if Marilla wants a hand with the morning chores. See you at breakfast?"

 _No! I want you now! Why won't you look at me?_

"Alright. Sounds good."

She'd started the morning off on the wrong foot, and the rest of her day had gone accordingly. On her way back in from the chicken coop, Anne dropped an egg right on the doorstep. Jem was asked to scrub it off, and ended up making a bigger mess, which Marilla then had to clean while Anne made sure that the bacon didn't burn. Walter spilled his drink at breakfast, upsetting the good blue tablecloth; overcome with guilt (and milk), the boy began to wail, and Gilbert had to see to him while Anne and Marilla quickly cleared the table, leaving Jem to pout because he hadn't been able to finish his biscuit.

By the time order had been restored to the kitchen, Gilbert had stuffed Walter into a fresh set of clothes. Anne saw the opportunity to get him alone: her hopes fell when he gathered his coat and hat. "Walk me out?" he'd asked casually.

Anne grabbed her shawl and followed him out the door. "Leaving already?"

"I promised my father I'd help him out with a thing."

Anne eyed him skeptically: John Blythe asked help from no one. It was a trait she admired in the man, though at his age, it was becoming a source of constant worry for those near him.

"Oh, really?"

"This branch that's growing near the bedroom window. Birds built a nest right there, and have been chirping rather loudly. We're going to move the nest further away from the house."

"A nest."

"We'll probably saw off the branch, too, so that no one else makes themselves at home there." This week was supposed to be theirs, and Gilbert was missing out on their quality time to relocate a birds' nest?

Anne breathed deeply and chastised herself: it was natural for Gilbert to spend time with his parents, even sweet of him to give a hand at home. But his timing was horrendous.

"Will I see you at all today?" she asked, trying with all her might not to sound sullen.

"Not sure," Gilbert shrugged nonchalantly. "I've been meaning to call a few people, catch up on some reading. I might even take a nap at some point." He stretched languorously and yawned, as if to prove a point.

Anne felt as though she had sunk to a new low: rest was taking precedence over her. _Did you not get enough sleep?_ she wanted to throw his words back at him, but pettiness would get her nowhere.

"Alright. I'll see you at suppertime, then."

"I'll be over on the later side." He bent over to deposit a quick peck on her cheek and walked away.

It would have been fine, had he not paused at the gate, and turned around to offer her a damning wink.

Gilbert knew exactly what he was doing, Anne decided as she bent to assess the damage done to the crocuses on which the bucket had landed. He'd been riling her up, on purpose! How dare he? After the beautiful moment they'd shared last night, the precious gift he'd bestowed upon her, he was going to play dumb and aloof?

Well, it was a very Gilbert-y move, she'd give him that much. And if he was going to be predictable, then, so would she.

* * *

Gilbert sat with his mother in the kitchen, sipping tea: he with the latest copy of _The Canadian Pharmaceutical Journal_ , she with a letter from her cousin Ruth.

"Those toddlers of hers are running her rugged," Sarah chuckled, then sighed. "Twins - be glad those don't run in _our_ side of the family." A knock on the front door made her stand up. "Now, who could that be? Mrs. Lanwick isn't due till tomorrow..."

Gilbert didn't look up from his periodical. He relaxed in his chair and read on.

"Oh, Anne! I didn't know we were expecting you."

"I apologize for dropping in without checking first, that was rude of me."

"No, that's quite alright! Won't you come in? Gilbert's in the kitchen."

There was a strained silence, and then a controlled "thank you." He grinned to himself and swiftly drained his tea, bracing himself for Hurricane Anne.

"Gilbert, dear, see who's come to pay a visit!" his mother announced a bit too brightly. He looked up from the journal and affected surprise.

"Anne! Everything alright?" He bit the inside of his cheeks so as not to let his smile betray him, though by the look of things, Anne was already onto him.

"Quite alright, thank you," was her prim reply. The urge to grin was overwhelming: Gilbert's eyes were watering from the effort to repress it.

"Would you care for some tea?" his mother offered.

"No, thank you. I just...er, needed a word with Gilbert."

"Alright." He set down his journal and sat up. "What's on your mind?"

Her head twitched once, then twice, towards the exit. " _Outside,_ " she uttered through gritted teeth. Sarah Blythe did them the courtesy of pretending to fuss with the kettle, and the two took their leave at last through the backdoor.

"Where's your father?" demanded Anne once the door had been shut behind them.

"In the fields, I guess, why-" Gilbert had no time to finish his sentence: Anne had grabbed him by the collar and strode up to the barn purposefully, leaving him to scramble behind like a ill-functioning kite. He let her tug him past the structure and to the orchard, where she finally came to a halt.

"Anne, wh-" Before he could ask, she'd pinned him against the nearest tree. "Darling, I-"

She propelled herself against him with unforetold strength: in a flash, she was stealing his breath, her mouth sealed firmly over his, her hands fisting his shirt. At his halfhearted attempt to push her off, Anne took his hands and placed them on her hips. Gilbert's fingers flexed tentatively. When she didn't balk, they dug deeper.

Anne responded by leaning closer into him. Somehow, she managed to tear her lips from his, to deposit a trail of kisses along his jaw, alternating with teasing bites that intensified down the way. By the time they'd reached his neck, the biting had turned feral, almost vicious: she latched on to his hot skin and sucked passionately.

Gilbert threw his head back, hardly able to process the situation. He groaned when Anne raised her knee between his legs, rubbing her thigh sinfully against him, cutting his breath short.

"Anne, wait-" With a herculean effort, he heaved her off, his big hands firmly grasping her upper arms. A pathetic whimper escaped her as he pried her fingers open, which still clutched his shirt desperately. "Just- let me...like this." He rustled her skirt and cumbersome petticoats, rearranging them so that they covered his knee, then yanked her back to him. Propelled forward by the momentum, Anne braced herself against his chest: Gilbert's hand reached behind her thigh and lifted her leg up, back to where it had been.

"Oh!" Anne cried out, as his own leg now pressed against her. A most delicious friction, the sensation she'd believed lost forever, now overwhelmed her. Her hands anchored on his shoulders as her hips bucked of their own volition, encouraged by the fingers gripping her through the fabric her dress.

They rocked in time against each other, their bodies fitting together like two pieces of a puzzle, pleasure thickening between them like tension before a storm. Sensing that she was close as well, his hands assisted her disjointed movements, increasing the pressure for her. Anne rewarded him with a precious series of gasps, each more vocal than the last.

Her hand plunged into his hair, tugged at his curls as she lost herself. "Oh, Gil..."

He spiraled out of control: Gilbert lurched forward frantically, hips jerking wildly as he raced towards the edge, her sensuous moans spurring him on, closer, closer, so close-

Anne watched, transfixed, as a soulful, almost painful groan escaped from Gilbert's lips. He was lust personified, with his eyes closed, neck strained, jaw slack. His hands loosened, hard grip turning into a gentle caress.

"Anne," he sighed, his chest still heaving, eyes unfocused. With trembling fingers, he reached for a silken strand of red that had come loose, tucked it reverently behind her ear.

"Gilbert." She searched his face, a timid smile forming slowly on her lips. He answered with a smile of his own, then grunted.

"Did I hurt you?" Her concern made him chuckle despite the discomfort.

"No. Well, not in a bad way."

"Oh - Gilbert, I'm sorry!" she exclaimed in dismay, tracing the red imprint marked on his neck by her teeth. He and shook his head.

"I might ask you to do that again - or return the favor. That was delightful. The whole thing was..." He stood up from the tree with his legs awkwardly apart. "Too delightful, in fact," he grimaced. Anne looked down to where he was tugging at his trousers, and laughed.

"How will we explain this to your mother?"

Mischief twinkled in his eyes as he grinned. "I'll sneak back in when she brings the laundry out, in about an hour."

"Won't she miss you? What will you do out here for an hou-"

He silenced her with a kiss, and Anne went boneless all over again.

"I can think of something to do."


	4. Thursday Morning

"Keep those trousers clean if you go outside, and be on your best behavior for Granny," reminded Mother as she fiddled with the top button of Walt's coat.

"I will," the boy solemnly swore, and received a sweet kiss for his efforts.

" _Please_ be nice to your brother," she then begged of the older sibling, whose agreement was a bit more sullen: having decided recently that he had surpassed the reasonable age for kisses, he was given an embarrassingly fond look and a pat on the cheek instead.

"We'll be expecting you by suppertime," said Gran as Father plopped Walt next to Jem in the buggy with a groan. "Six o'clock at the latest."

"Alright, Ma," intoned Father with a mock huff that rivalled Jem's. "Drive safely."

"I always drive safely when the babes are with me," sniffed Gran.

"We're not babes!" protested Jem, earning stern looks from both his parents.

"But you're _my_ babes, darling. All set? Off we go!" announced Gran with a clack of the reins. Walt's high-pitched chatter started even before the horse could break into a brisk walk. Jem tried to ignore the pit expanding in his stomach: big boys, such as himself, did not make a fuss when saying goodbye to their parents.

As the buggy neared the bend, his resolve broke, and he turned around at the last minute to reach out. His father waved back, and his mother blew him a kiss, and the lump in his throat eased. Jem turned back and sighed: a weekend at the Grandparents' house might be fun, after all.

* * *

They stood side by side, watching until the buggy disappeared. A telltale sniff made Gilbert rope an arm around Anne's shoulders. "He'll be fine."

"I know." She bravely held in her tears and smiled. Her boy was showing less signs of separation anxiety everyday, but staying away overnight was still difficult. He was in good hands, though, and Anne knew he would be fine by the time they'd reached the Blythes' house.

She turned to find Gilbert staring intently at her, his hazel eyes boring into hers. Intent was etched plainly on his face, and her breathing shallowed, quickening in anticipation. They held each other's gaze a beat longer, then raced up the porch. Anne nearly unhinged the front door in her eagerness to get inside, and was promptly pinned against the wall. Gilbert grabbed her by the upper arms and stole her air in a breathtaking kiss. She threw her arms around his neck, holding on to him as she raised her thigh between his legs, and-

The door swung open, and Walter's little form scuttled in. "Mama? Papa?" his soprano voice carried on past them, heading straight for the staircase.

Gilbert pushed off her and readjusted his trousers hastily, trying to catch his breath quietly while Anne shook out her skirts and fixed her hair at lightening speed.

"Walter, is everything alright?" she called out in an admirably casual voice. Gilbert cleared his throat, not trusting himself to speak quite yet.

The little footsteps changed directions, and the little boy to whom they belonged joined his parents in the foyer. "I forgot Mr. Moose!" he explained with wide, innocent eyes.

"Well then, let's find him, shall we?"

Anne was either unaffected by the interruption, or a very good actress, thought Gilbert as he suppressed a groan. He followed the search party around the house, cursing the day he'd purchased the blasted stuffed animal with an annoying penchant for getting stained, ripped and lost.

"Found it!" cried Walter's victoriously, not a moment too soon. He said his goodbyes for the second time before running out of the house. Gilbert stood up from behind the armchair and looked across the sitting room at Anne, who was just visible from where she stood on the landing.

They made eye contact for two beats before scrambling to action. "Doors!" called Anne, rushing to shut the one Walter had left open in his wake.

"Doors," confirmed Gilbert, having at last recovered his speech faculties as he ran to the backdoor, and bolted it with more force than necessary. All they needed was for Marilla to return early from her errands in Carmody. With that troubling image in mind, he yanked the curtains over the windows, filtering the Green Gables kitchen light in colored shadows. When Anne ran in to join him, he seized her by the waist and sat her down on the edge of the countertop.

A dip of her head was all it took to bring her lips to his. He reached blindly to extract the pin that held her hair in a knot, thus freeing the soft strands. Their kiss deepened as his fingers plunged through the silken mass. His touch elicited a lustful moan which poured from Anne's mouth into his own, sending thrills in turn down his spine.

Unwilling to break the kiss, Gilbert searched blindly again, this time for her skirts. Endless mounds of fabric rustled through his hands until he found the hems at last, and lifted them to expose her stockings, grateful that she had foregone her petticoats today. He rested a hand on her knee and pushed on slowly, upwards...

Her hands pushed at his shoulders, and she tore her mouth from his. "Darling, please-"

"You liked it yesterday, didn't you?" he heaved. "This will be better. I can be more precise with my hand, and more gentle than with my leg."

Pearly teeth caught her pink lip. Still breathing hard, Gilbert took her hand and placed it around his wrist. "You're in control," he told her. "You can stop this anytime you want."

Her grayish green orbs held his with an incinerating sparkle, and she smiled hesitantly. "Alright."

Gilbert resumed the trek up her covered thigh, stopping when he felt the slit in her drawers. Hardly able to believe his luck, he brushed the red curls that never saw the light of day, the final obstacle. Palm facing upwards, with her fingers still braceleted around his wrist, he grazed her with the tip of his index.

The contact made her gasp sharply. Gilbert's head jerked up to search for any sign of discomfort on her face, but he found none. She offered him a small smile instead, and let her thighs fall open further. He touched her again, applying the slightest bit of pressure as he moved his finger in small, concentric motions.

The world was a blur before Anne, but the pleasure was sharp, flirting on the border of pain: she'd never known anything like it. She saw nothing, heard nothing, felt nothing but the delicious sensations, and the promise of bliss building up within her.

Anne's grip on Gilbert threatened to dislocate his wrist, but he worked through the pain, drinking in her enjoyment. He watched, enraptured, as she panted sensuously through parted lips, her eyes on him but unfocused, flames of orange framing her face. He quickened his movements and increased the pressure, his own hips twitching reflexively.

A sheen of sweat broke out at her brow: Anne felt feverish. The need in her was so acute, it hurt: her hips rocked, leaning into his touch, the desire for more consuming her. The pad of his finger was burning her, and the fire caught in her core, spreading up to her stomach, her chest, her heart.

Anne fell, blinded by the heat that blazed all around her. She soared, floating somewhere far away: a place that was too hot for paradise, and too white for the underworld.

When she returned to her own body, back to Earth, it was to find Gilbert staring at her with shining eyes and a flush on his cheeks. He appeared to be just as amazed as she was.

"Gil," she called on a breathless sigh, reaching to caress his face. Despite his obvious arousal, he offered her an easy smile as her fingers continued through his dark brown curls.

"You enjoyed that," he stated smugly.

She shook her head. "'Enjoy' doesn't come close. Gil, it was... what you did..."

His smile morphed into a wolfish grin. "Put you at a loss for words, haven't I?"

She pushed him away. "You're awfully pleased with yourself," she said primly, rearranging her skirts over her legs.

"How could I not be? I've turned your brilliant mind to jelly, admit it."

"I... I..." Anne sighed, unable to formulate a clever comeback. "Fine. You've made me forget myself. Happy?"

"Very."

"Be a gentleman, then, and help me down." Gilbert obliged, lifting her off the counter and setting her down. Her stomach brushed the hardness in his trousers, and she looked up at him.

"Shall I...?" she ventured, hooking her fingers lightly on his waistband. Gilbert saw the discreet gulp she tried to hide, and found the courage to deny her offer.

"Maybe later," he answered, his breezy tone betraying no frustration. "Right now, it's time to take a bath."

"A bath?" she echoed, puzzled. "Do I smell bad?"

"You smell divine," he assured her in a suggestive tone that left her with no doubt.

"Why on Earth would we bathe so early? You mentioned going out for a walk later, won't we just get filthy all over again?"

His hazel eyes twinkled with mischief. "I didn't say the goal of the bath was to get clean."

* * *

 **Thank you so much for your reviews! I'm splitting up Thursday into two parts, in an attempt to keep the chapters at a humane size. Shout out to the recurring guest: welcome to fanfiction, and thank you for your kind encouragement! I'm really feeling the love here :D**


	5. Thursday Afternoon

Anne marvelled at her reflexion in the long looking glass. The white gown contoured her slender silhouette perfectly, lending her an air of virginal chastity. Its sleeves were simple and straight, with only a discreet band of embroidery to decorate the hems, and not even a hint of the puff she'd coveted as a child. The bodice hugged her modest bosom, caressing the skin that was, at Gilbert's request, left bare underneath.

She hadn't been able to neglect her drawers, though: there _was_ such a thing as too daring, especially if they were headed outdoors, as she supposed they were. The forgoing of petticoats would have to suffice - the simple skirt of the dress teased her bare ankles, stockings left aside for now.

She considered pinning back her hair, at least the sides: but Gilbert had clearly instructed her to leave it loose and flowing. Perhaps he'd wanted her to wear it as a natural veil? It might have made more sense, were her locks the fairest shade of silvery blonde... but, over the years, Anne had learned to indulge his appreciation of her coloring. It was an easy enough demand to fulfil, anyway, so she would not mess with it.

She floated down the stairs, to a silent house. He would be outside, then. Anne went through the kitchen, which was still bathed in reddish shadows. A slow, incredulous grin played on her lips as she thought of what had taken place in the room. Had it only been this morning? Anne felt like an entirely new person - rediscovering her own body, and facets of her mind she hadn't dared to explore before. A flame of passion had been lit within her, and her childish attraction to dark hair and lopsided grins had evolved into something much more savage.

Drawing the curtains open, she spotted the subject of said wild thoughts squatting down to inspect her flower bed. The grass felt cool under her bare feet as she went to crouch beside him.

"What are we looking for, dearest?"

"A bouquet," he replied without looking up.

"You're welcome to pick any you'd like," she invited, but he stood and offered his hands to pull her up.

"Not these. We might find something on the way..." His voice trailed off as he took in her appearance. A vision in white, just as he'd pictured in his mind: simple and elegant, Anne practically glowed. With a halo and wings, she would be an angel - with a crown and jewels, a princess. Without any artifice - not even undergarments - she was the most ravishing creature to belong to the real world.

"You're beautiful," he said reverently, catching an orange strand between two fingers.

"It's not too simple?" she asked uncertainly.

"It's perfect. It's _you_ I want to see - the less on you, the better."

"Gil!" she smacked his arm with a giggle. "Wherever we're going, I hope it's not far: I can't imagine what I'd say if we were to run into anyone."

His eyes lit up with sudden inspiration. "Wait here," he instructed and dashed back into the house, returning moments later with a pile of dark material. "Would you wear this as a shawl?"

Anne unfolded the fabric and laughed. "Gil, it's a blanket! If you'll let me fetch my-"

"Please? We haven't far to go. Just wrap it around: that way, no one will see your dress - or lack thereof."

"And what of my lack of shoes?" she demanded.

He flashed her his signature lopsided grin. "I daresay, no one will be looking at your feet. We're sticking to grassy paths, anyway."

"Can't I wear shoes along the way, and remove them when we get there - wherever that may be?"

"Shoes mean stockings: we'll have none of those today."

"Fine, Mr. Blythe: if I'm not wearing shoes, why is it so important that you wear yours?"

"Why, the better to carry _you_ when your delicate ankle gives out, my dear," he wagged his eyebrows cheekily at her.

Anne crossed her arms sternly, unable to completely repress her own amusement. "If going barefoot isn't supposed to be an issue, I don't see why you can't do it."

Gilbert heaved a long sigh. "Alright, you win."

She was rewarded for her insistence with the delicious sight of his taught hind muscles as he bent down to untie his laces. The bounce of his dark brown curls as he struggled to remove his shoes while standing, the waves of his shoulders under his shirt... Anne resisted the urge to pounce on him like the wanton woman she might have become. He'd gone to great lengths to plan out the afternoon, and so she would go along, keeping up the pretence that she hadn't guessed his intentions.

Having stashed his shoes and socks safely indoors, Gilbert offered his arm with a youthful smile so reminiscent of the adolescent she'd first loved, Anne might have swooned. Not inclined to such fits, she returned the smile instead and accepted his invitation. The fresh spring grass tickled the bottom of their feet as they traipsed around, hunting for the most perfect flowers. By the time they'd reached the woods, Anne held a floral arrangement fit for a queen.

"Nearly there," said Gilbert as they stepped carefully: there were more pebbles and sharp things on the path alongside the creek.

"Oh, Gilbert!" gasped Anne. "The bridge!"

"Our bridge," he corrected.

"I haven't been out here in so long, I'd nearly forgotten all about it!" Sharp objects forgotten, Anne let go of his arm and raced towards the wooden structure.

"I haven't forgotten." His words were barely audible over the murmur of trickling water.

"Neither have I." Anne gazed dreamily over the planks. "This is where we said our goodbyes," she reminisced, the stolen moments before his imminent departure for medical school replaying in her mind.

"It's also where we said hello," he added, the rumble of his low voice now just above her shoulder, sending a thrill of delight coursing through her spine. It was a better memory: their secret meeting, on a perfectly mild September day at dawn... She recognized what the bridge represented, and her suspicions were confirmed.

"This place is sacred," she whispered wistfully as he pulled the makeshift shawl from her shoulders.

"I'm glad you think so." He leaned forward so that his head was right next to hers, his mouth within kissing distance of hers. "Anne?"

"Yes, Gilbert?"

"Keep your mouth closed."

An innocent kiss? she mused internally. Frustrating - but appropriate. She complied, closing her eyes as well.

"And you might want to hold your nose."

"What?" Her eyes flew open, but it was too late: a light shove sent her tumbling backwards, and before she could fully comprehend what had happened, she found herself immersed in icy water. Wriggling around with all her might, she lunged for the surface and promptly coughed up what she'd swallowed in surprise. Her feet touched the rocky bed of the creek, and she found that she could stand easily - the water only reached up to her chest. When she was able to gulp in some air at last, it was to the sound of a full-bellied laugh.

"GILBERT BLYTHE!" she sputtered, dragging wet hair from her face, receiving only more helpless chortling in guise of response. She cleared her eyes to glare at the culprit, who had succumbed to a most ungallant fit of laughter.

"You- you scoundrel!" She waded angrily to the edge, nearly losing her balance.

"Hold- hold on," he managed through chuckles, rolling his trousers up to his knees before wading in. What, did he honestly expect to stay dry?

"Not a chance," she bit out, flinging a wave in his direction: the cold water barely splattered the front of his shirt, and did nothing to douse his laughter.

"Easy, now," he raised his hands in defence as she approached.

"What on Earth possessed you to do that?" She was so adorable in her fury that Gilbert had a hard time concealing his amusement.

"I wanted to live out a fantasy," was his explanation.

"Drowning me is your fantasy?" she glowered.

"No, this is." He pulled her flush against him and kissed her soundly, unmindful of the cold seeping through his clothes. She resisted a moment before letting herself go pliable in his arms, her sinuous curves melding against him. She was liquid against him, her arms slithering up around his neck.

He broke the kiss when he felt her tremble against him. "You're shaking."

"It could have something to do with being pitched into a freezing creek," she shoved at him, but he didn't budge an inch.

"Oh, come on, Anne. It's not freezing."

"That's easy to say when you're not drenched from head to toe!" she raised her voice dangerously, gesturing at her soaked self.

"Alright, alright!" he swept her off her feet and carried her to dry land. "There." He set her back on her feet.

"Ugh, this dress is ruined!" she moaned, wringing out her heavy skirt.

"Don't be mad for keeps, now," he begged, draping the dry blanket over her shoulders. He knelt at the foot of the bridge and returned with a reconstructed nosegay from the flowers she'd dropped before falling into the water.

She yanked the lot from his hands and eyed him suspiciously.

"C'mon, Anne," he held out his hand. " _Can't we be friends? I only meant it for a joke. Let's be friends,_ please."*

Anne felt her cheeks burn of an embarrassed blush. As usual, she'd jumped to the wrong conclusion - _this_ had been his plan all along.

"You fantasized of me forgiving you," she stated more than asked.

"I've fantasized of a whole lot more." His eyes turned dark. "You clung to that pile with such pride and dignity - no, really!" he insisted when she huffed. "And then you clung to my hand, as though your life depended on me. You trusted me to save you."

"I wasn't left with much choice," she muttered.

He smiled. "And you had no idea what kind of effect you had on me. Sitting right across from me, dripping wet, in that white dress...I was so hard, I could barely remember how to row."

She clenched her chattering teeth to keep from smiling. It wouldn't do to leave him off the hook so easily. "You were only seventeen. What were you thinking?"

"At seventeen, what wasn't I thinking?" he dared a grin. "I wanted to reach out. I wanted to touch your hair - more gently, this time - and see what it felt like when it was wet. I wanted to taste your lips, to lick the rivulets that ran down your neck."

He traced a finger down her cheek and hooked it gently under her chin, tilting her face so that their eyes met. "I wanted you to look at me, to forgive me. I wanted us to be friends."

"Just friends?" she blinked, batting her darkened lashes.

"There's no such thing as being 'just friends' with you, Anne." Gilbert hovered over her, his lips just a breath from hers. "I want you to love me, the same as I love you."

She raised a hand and placed the tips of her fingers to his mouth. His eyes flew open, but he found no trace of censor in hers. The gesture was not an indication to stop or step away: it was an invitation to stay. Her tall finger traveled downwards, grazing his Adam's apple, then pausing at the hollow of his throat; continuing down his damp shirt, hooking onto every button on its way, until it reached the waistband of his equally damp trousers.

Her other hand joined the first to pop the button open: Anne emitted a little gasp as his shaft sprung free, stiffer than he'd ever been.

"You aren't wearing drawers!" she exclaimed, the blanket falling from her shoulders, and Gilbert found that he could hardly breathe from excitement.

"Are you disappointed?" he forced out, sounding completely winded already.

She shook her head and reached out tentatively. It was bobbing, and nearly purple from the strain - he'd hoped to present himself under better light, or at least a bit more poised - but poise was absolutely unattainable in the present situation. A deep inhale was about all he could manage, and then her hand closed on him, and he forgot all about breathing.

Anne watched in fascination as a fine line of clear moisture glistened from the hole. Bringing her hand up to the tip, she touched the liquid experimentally, then smeared it down the length of him: her grip was now slick and firm, and made him moan in a most encouraging way.

She hadn't expected it to be so easy. She'd thought she'd be scared of touching him, or at least unsure of herself, but the act turned out to be quite natural. Intuition seemed to serve as an adequate guide, judging by how heavily he was panting.

Gilbert screwed his eyes shut, torn between the desire to prolong the sensations and the race to relief. He tried to talk - to beg her to stop, or to urge her to go faster, to express how he felt - but all that came out was a series of choppy sounds.

"Oh...oh, I... An-" he choked out, aware that it was coming out all wrong, unable to care. The squeeze of her hand was perfect, and when she experimented with a little twist of the wrist, he had to hold on to her shoulders so as not to keel over from pleasure.

That was all the encouragement she needed: aided by the bucking of his hips, Anne quickened the pace, her hand moving back and forth faster and harder, and faster yet, until a hard thrust accompanied by a wonderful guttural sound indicated he'd reached the summit. While his warm release shot out, spilling over her hand, she drank in the look on his face, eyes wide and glazed, mouth hanging open as he gasped for air, his brow contorted in agonized bliss.

When his feet touched Earth once again, Gilbert blinked and stared at the woman in white standing before him. The pride on her face made him blush a bit, but he also felt proud that she'd bravely taken on the unknown - and humbled that the merest touch of her hand could bring him out of his own body.

"Anne." His voice quivered on her name, and his weakened knees began to shake. She smiled and glanced down at her hand, which gripped his slowly softening phallus.

"Um... sorry 'bout that," he uttered, the red traces on his cheeks deepening.

"I'm not," she grinned up at him. "But, uh... I think I might need to rinse this off."

"So do I," he agreed with a bashful smile, and they bent down by the creek. She swished her hand under the flow while he awkwardly scooped fistfuls of water to clean his privates.

"I feel foolish," she said with a self-deprecating smile.

"You have nothing to feel foolish about," Gilbert assured her, praying that she wasn't already regretting their actions.

"No, I mean- when you said to dress like this, and then you brought us out here, I thought...oh, this is so embarrassing." She giggled at herself, despite being mortified. "I thought you wanted us to, perhaps, give us a second wedding."

He couldn't quite repress the grin forming on his face. "And why did you think I asked you to wear nothing but a dress? A command which you disobeyed, I might add. Certainly not appropriate for a wedding ceremony."

She quirked an eyebrow, and checked that her skirt hadn't caught or gotten stuck. "How can you tell? My drawers aren't showing, are they?"

"Ah," he intoned with infuriating smugness. "Well, that's the thing about white clothes, you see. When the fabric gets wet, it takes on a certain... transparency."

Anne looked down at herself and yelped. "Gilbert!" she shrieked, covering her breasts hastily. "You might have told me!"

"Now, where's the fun in that?" he laughed, buckling his trousers.

"Oh, really!" Anne stomped off in search of the blanket: she picked it up from the ground where it had been last abandoned, and wrapped it snuggly around herself.

"Aw, Anne, don't get all prude on me now."

"A kinder, more considerate person would have told me," she sniffed.

"Well, your roguish, uncouth husband was too busy enjoying the sights," he justified with mock contrition.

"Oh no." Her face fell. "My necklace!"

"What necklace?" he frowned in confusion.

"My necklace!" she repeated more urgently, feeling around her neck. "It's gone!"

"You weren't wearing any necklace," he attempted to reassure her, but she shook her head.

"I tucked it under the dress. It must have slipped off." She raced to the spot from which she'd fallen and searched the ground. "I _did_ have it on me, I remember putting it on this morning. It's the gold chain, the one with Matthew's locket - you know the one!"

Gilbert's heart sank: he did know, and he had a good idea how much it meant to her. "Are you sure you had it on when we left?"

"Positive. I remember readjusting the chain just before getting to the bridge." Her eyes widened in horror. "Gil, you don't think it's in the creek?"

He grimaced. "I'm thinking that's exactly where it is. The current isn't too strong, it might still be around somewhere near."

Gilbert considered removing his shirt, but it was already covered in wet blotches at the front, and his trousers were in no better shape. He kept his clothes on and hopped in.

"You were right: it _is_ freezing," he concurred belatedly, shivering.

"Oh, Gil, please find it!" begged Anne from the mossy bank.

"Just give me a minute," he called back, squinting through the water which reached up to his waist. The surface wasn't calm enough to see clearly: he'd have to go under.

Gilbert took a deep breath and immersed himself completely. He stayed down as long as he could, scanning the rocky bottom for a glint, a shimmer, anything shiny. When he could hold his breath no longer, he stood up just long enough to fill his lungs, then ducked back under. It had to be close by: if it wasn't...well, he would search the whole darned creek until it turned up.

He felt around until oxygen deprivation forced him back up: he broke the surface and gulped for air, to the awful sounds of sobs.

"Don't cry," he sputtered, blinking through the water coursing from his hair down his face. As his ears cleared, he realized that they weren't sobs at all. Flicking his wet hair from his eyes with a quick shake of his head, he saw Anne shaking with gleeful laughter.

"You sneak!" he yelled, recognizing the prank too late.

"Don't be mad for keeps!" she threw back at him. "We're friends, now, remember?"

"I told you, there's no such thing as being 'just friends' with you." Gilbert wobbled onto dry land, his trousers sticking to his bare legs most uncomfortably. "Ah, well, I guess I deserved that," he conceded, wiping water from his eyes and flicking it from his fingers.

"You more than deserved it," confirmed Anne haughtily, her smile mocking him.

"Argh, I'm soaked through!" he plucked at the shirt which was plastered to his chest, its translucent fabric like a second skin. "Don't suppose you'd be sharing that blanket?"

"Nope!" she giggled and took off, leaving him to chase after her.

Gilbert gave her a head start, grinning to himself. Never a dull moment with Anne, not when water was involved.

* * *

 ***LMM, AoGG**

 **Thank you all for reading, and for your kind comments! Seeing as I won't be updating On Our Way until we've reached the end of "the week", I'll answer to your reviews to the latest chapter here.**

 **Lavinia Maxwell : Thank you! I still have this "week" to finish before resuming OOW. Hope you enjoy! **

**OriginalMcFishie : I'm glad you liked the last OOW chapter, because it was a massive struggle to write. The first dozen of drafts were overly melodramatic - simple forgiveness worked better in the end. And you're right, there is something magical about that garden!**

 **oz diva : I'm sure Anne and Gilbert will improve their communication skills. In the meanwhile, more M! **

**Guest : Hi again! And yes, I'm sure we all would have enjoyed pouncing on Gilbert in the garden - but there were bigger issues at hand. More pouncing to take place in M land, though!**

 **NotMrsRachelLynde & AnneNGil: Thank you! I'm glad you liked Hester Grey's - I felt very insecure posting it. Many drafts were scrapped, for sounding like horrible scripts from a spanish telenovela. ("But Pedro, mi amor, the baby is yours!" Ugh.) **


	6. Friday

Gilbert drank in the sight of the woman sleeping beside him. Several strands of orange had escaped the confines of their braid, and reached across his pillow like thin limbs of a fiery vine. A constellation of freckles dotted the creamy skin of her face, under the twin crescent moons of her copper eyebrows. He resisted the urge to kiss her delicate nose, letting her rest a bit longer.

The flames of passion brought on yesterday by their unsupervized adventures had fizzed out on their way back from the forest. The walk home, already made uncomfortable by the spring breeze blowing at their sodden clothes, had become exponentially unpleasant when Anne had tripped on a branch and twisted her ankle. Gilbert had offered to carry her, but being barefoot himself, it had still taken forever to reach Green Gables. Her reminders that it had been _his_ idea to leave the footwear at home did nothing to improve his mood.

Since neither he nor Anne had felt particularly romantic in their bedraggled, dripping state, his plans of joining her for a soak in the tub had been set aside for another day. He'd let her bathe first, wringing out his garments as well as hers before having a turn in the steaming water. There had been just enough time to towel off and get dressed before Marilla's return. The sainted woman hadn't commented on Anne's wet hair, or their clothes hanging on the line - she'd merely rolled her eyes, and said that she hoped they'd had a nice day.

Anne and Gilbert's dispositions had thawed significantly once they'd regained the privacy of their room. Not so much that they'd rekindled the fire, but just enough to go to bed wearing only their underclothes. Warm and dry at last, they'd fallen asleep in each other's arms. Well, Anne had, at any rate: Gilbert stayed awake quite a bit longer, lecturing his raging erection on the virtues of patience, and eventually succumbing to a fitful slumber.

Coaxed back into consciousness by the same issue that had kept him up the night before, Gilbert tried to remove his underwear without jostling the mattress too much. _Soon_ , he promised himself through the want that was quickly turning to ache.

Fate intervened in form of the backdoor shutting loudly. Anne's brow furrowed at the noise, and she squeaked to life with a feline yawn and stretch. Finally, her eyelids fluttered open, and Gilbert was subject to a sparkling stare that only aggravated his problem.

"You're awake," she mused in a breathy voice.

"So are you," he pointed out, making her smile.

"I could get used to waking up like this," she purred sleepily, rolling onto her side. Gilbert snaked an arm around her and brought her in closer, depositing a slow burning kiss on her lips.

"Darling," she whispered, pushing away. "Marilla will be up any minute-"

"She just headed out. We have at least an hour before she comes back."

"Oh." Sudden shyness tinted her cheeks a rosy hue.

"I want you," he pressed himself against her thigh to validate his claim. Anne's breath caught, and for a tense moment, Gilbert feared she might leap out of bed: instead, she awarded him a tender caress that trailed down his bare torso. He melted into the mattress, his muscles quivering as she pushed the sheets off his stomach. When her hand finally closed around his arousal, he nearly jumped out of his skin.

"Oh, Anne," his throaty moan ignited a spark of lust within her. She tightened her grasp just enough to drive him wild. Through a haze of lust, Gilbert reached blindly until his hand found the opening in her drawers. He flicked his finger over the spot hidden among her curls, adding her gasps to his own.

"Anne," he pleaded as she forgot to move, lost in the sensations brought by the finger teasing her. His index slid down to her entrance and paused. "Anne... tell me I can..."

Greyish-green eyes found his, wide and glazed. "Let me please you," he nudged inside a fraction of an inch, waiting for her approval.

"Gil... OH!" The shock of his digit entering her lasted less than a second: he touched a place so deep within her, one she'd thought unreachable. Molten, liquid pleasure spread across her body.

"You're so wet," he marvelled. "So hot."

"Ah...Gil..." Her hips bucked reflexively.

"Tell me what you want."

"I need... more..." she panted, whimpering when he pulled out of her completely - only to insert two fingers back into her.

"GIL!" Her hand squeezed around his shaft and stroked clumsily.

"Oh," he moaned, thrusting into her grip while simultaneously sinking his fingers into her soft, moist heat. They moved faster still, working each other up into a somewhat synchronized frenzy.

"I- ah... please!" Anne found herself unable to articulate what she wanted, or to even understand what it was she sought in the first place.

Gilbert doubled his efforts, chanting her name with every thrust. Her cries became less coherent as his own took on a guttural rasp. They moved together now, to the natural rhythm of their growing pleasure: faster, harder, and faster yet, until Anne's delicate form arched in ecstasy. Her savage abandon sent Gilbert over the edge, and he quickly followed with a shout, his release more powerful than ever.

"Oh, Anne," he moaned sensuously as he pulled out his fingers, making her gasp. "Are you alright?"

"That was..." her voice wobbled with unspilt tears, to his horror. "...it was so incredible, Gil."

"Are you alright?"

"I... yes," she giggled incredulously, the moisture still pooled in her eyes. "I've never been more right."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm absolutely sure." The smile playing on her face underlined her sincerity.

"Well," Gilbert leaned in to kiss her upturned lips, then drawing back just enough so that their eyes were level. "I'm glad you liked that, because next time, I will make it even better for you."

"Nothing could possibly feel better than _that_ ," declared Anne with such certitude that he couldn't help but smirk.

"Just imagine," he rested his forehead on hers. "How much more I could give you."

"You mean-" Anne's breath caught. "With your-"

"Well, yes," reasoned Gilbert in a gentle tone. "It's wider than my fingers, and certainly longer - think of how much more intense it would feel..." he faltered, belatedly taking notice of the tension that had crept over her body. In a swift movement, she was out of bed and struggling into her robe.

"Anne, wait! We don't have to-"

"I need to wash up," she said briskly, avoiding eye contact at all costs.

"Anne, I'm sorry! I didn't mean now, we can wait..."

"It's late," she continued, as though he hadn't spoken. "We'd better not dawdle, or Marilla will wonder what's keeping us." And with that pronouncement, she fled the room. Gilbert pounded the mattress with his fist and called himself all the colorful names in the book. He'd pushed too much, too soon... and now, they were back where they'd started.

* * *

 **Thank you, dear readers, for your continuous support! We already know how this week ends, from the conversation that took place in Hester Gray's garden (OOW, chapter 14 "Garden of Promises). These chapters may therefore seem a bit redundant, but they should fill in some of the gaps while still being (somewhat) sexy. Many thanks to all who read, and special thanks for the reviews!**


	7. Saturday

**AN: I'm starting to feel like Lemony Snicket. "What you're about to see is devastating... if what you're after is a happy ending, then look away..."**

 **Ah, who am I kidding? I'm _way_ to vain to ask any of you precious readers to look away. Read on! I know that things aren't going the way we want - but I must stay on track. In OOW, we go from a beautiful night dancing among the trees, to a shouting match and tearful apologies. It will not be a lighthearted, happy journey, especially near the end. **

**_However_ , there are only two days of angst left. If you stick with me, I may continue to deliver sexy scenes - ones with happy endings (pun very much intended). **

**Thank you so much to all who are reading, reviewing, following and favoriting! I've taken to answering to your reviews via PMs. Guest, I have no other way to reach you - thank you for reading! And no, this is not over yet ;)**

* * *

It was a beautiful spring day, perfect for hanging the laundry. The cool afternoon breeze ensured that the sheets would dry quickly and evenly. Marilla glanced at the redhead beside her, far too devoted to the task at hand. Lining up the corners was important, but it didn't require surgical precision - just a minimum of dexterity and habit.

She wanted to say something, but her mouth was full of clothespins. And even if it hadn't been, what could she possibly contribute? When Anne had gotten engaged, Rachel Lynde had taken over the task of counselling. And counsel, she did: doling out advice (whether solicited or not) was Rachel's expertise, after all.

As annoyed and jealous as she'd felt then, Marilla had been undeniably grateful that Anne was being given knowledge from someone with as much experience as one could acquire in a lifetime. Now, watching the young couple go through a turbulent series of ups and downs, she realized that Rachel's brand of wisdom might not have been suitable after all.

With Marilla caught in a dilemma between leaving Anne alone and submitting her to bad advice, and Anne's own head caught in the clouds, neither woman heard the footsteps approaching. Therefore, when a male voice called out: "Afternoon, ladies," both started and cried out in surprise.

"Sorry - I didn't mean to startle you," apologized Gilbert.

"You do know how to make an entrance," said Marilla slyly, a hint of humor in her eyes.

The handsome, younger version of John Blythe would have grinned and teased: this nervous man shifted his weight from one foot to the other and asked whether Anne could be spared for the rest of the afternoon.

"I'm sorry, Gil - this might take a while," apologized Anne. Her tone made Marilla's ear twitch - somehow, she instinctively understood that the two needed this interaction.

"You go ahead," she dismissed Anne. "I'll get this done quicker without you slowing us down."

"But Marilla-"

"Go. Have a nap: goodness knows you've been dreaming with your eyes open for the past hour or so. Go! Off with you both!" she shooed them away with her free hand, her confidence boosted. Rachel was right about one thing, at least: a mother simply knows.

* * *

Gilbert pretended not to notice the way Anne fiddled with her apron strings, or the way she bit her lower lip. Truth be told, he was as nervous as she was, but pointing it out the obvious wouldn't do either of them any good. He held the gate for her and asked whether she would prefer to drive or walk to his parents' house.

"My folks are visiting friends," he explained when she visibly tensed up. "It'd just be the two of us. I thought we could use some uninterrupted time."

Anne nodded and draped her apron over her arm. "A walk would be nice."

"Anne, I-"

"Gil-"

"You first."

She squeezed his arm. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have run away. I wanted to stay, to explain, but... I acted like a coward instead." Gilbert nodded silently, allowing her to continue. "But Gil, you caught me off guard."

"I know. Somehow, I'd thought that after what we'd just done, you'd feel more disposed... and less skittish."

"I wasn't expecting it," Anne's shoulders hunched defensively.

"I'm starting to think we'll need a fanfare to warn you every time I'd like to speak of something delicate."

She stopped walking and stared at him, her posture proud and rigid. "I'll admit that I was in the wrong yesterday, and I have apologized: but I will not stay and trade barbs."

His breath whooshed out on a heavy sigh. "I'm sorry." He pulled her into a loose embrace, his arms almost limp around her. "I'm sorry. I'll stop. Please, don't go."

He sounded so deflated that among her own pain, Anne felt a twang of distress for him. Somewhat mollified, she returned the embrace.

"Let's go inside," he whispered, and she followed him into the house. Up in his childhood room, Gilbert gestured for her to have a seat on his bed. Anne watched curiously as he opened the drawer of his nightstand, and pull out a jar.

"Anne-" He pulled out the chair from his desk and sat down in front of her. Anne's throat tightened at how earnest he looked. "Can we just forget about yesterday? Not permanently - just for now, just for the rest of the day, let us put all that behind us. We will talk about it later - we'll have to, but not now."

It did sound like a reasonable proposition. "Alright," she acquiesced. "What shall we talk about now?"

Gilbert grinned. "Let's play a game." He held up the jar. "Do you know what this is?"

Anne frowned. What in the world was he trying to accomplish? "It looks like apple butter."*

His grinned turned lopsided. "Correct."

" _That_ was your game?" She raised an eyebrow, unimpressed.

"We are going to eat this..." He opened the jar and dipped his finger in it, ignoring her protests that he really ought to use a spoon. "...off of each other."

"What do you mean?"

Gilbert smirked at the spark of interest in her eyes. "I'll go first." He lifted his finger from the jar, and painted her lower lip. "Like this," he whispered, and caught her lip between his teeth, sucking gently before releasing her.

Anne blinked, her heart racing. "My turn?" she breathlessly.

Gilbert nodded and held out the jar to her: she dipped her finger, and smeared the butter on his neck. He moaned lustily as she licked him clean.

"We need less clothes for this game," he noted, removing his shirt. Anne hesitated before following suit, discarding her dress and petticoats. His trousers and undershirt joined her stockings on the floor, followed by his socks, and her corset.

Blushing at the way he eyed her drawers, Anne quickly estimated how bare she would be without them. Gilbert might have forgiven her cowardly avoidance the day before, it wouldn't do to deny him again. Anyhow, it wasn't anything he hadn't seen before, she reflected. As long as she got to keep her top, the bottom could go.

Gilbert, having noticed her hesitation, turned to draw the curtains shut. The drapes wouldn't block the sunlight completely, but the act of turning around would put her more at ease to disrobe. The sound of fabric rustling made him twitch in anticipation, and a discreet cough indicated that he could turn back.

The vision of Anne sitting on his bed wearing only a thin chemise, her magnificent orange hair freed from its tight knot and tumbling over her shoulders in undulant waves, left Gilbert feeling humbled. What had he ever done to deserve the beautiful woman who'd disrobed for him, despite her fear? How had he merited the absolute trust residing behind her suggestive gaze?

"I believe it's your turn." Moved by her bravado, which was noticeably more simulated than felt, Gilbert sat down beside her.

"It certainly is." He dipped his finger in the butter, and drew a line right above the loose collar of her chemise. He knew that he was skirting the edge of what would make her uncomfortable, but as his mouth closed over the top of her right breast, she threaded her fingers through his hair, holding his head to her bosom. Confident that she would stop him should he make her uncomfortable or hurt her, he lavished her exposed flesh, repressing the urge to grope the tempting orb in his hand.

"Is this alright?" he asked, his breath cool on her moist skin, sending a trail of goosebumps across her smooth surface.

She was surprised to find that it was rather more than alright. The scars left by greedy little teeth were the chief reason she preferred to keep her bosom covered, but he'd sucked on her with such care and tenderness that the act had felt quite pleasant.

"Let me do it to you." She waited for him to remove his undershirt before covering his left nipple in the unctuous cream. A swipe of her tongue had him hissing through his teeth, and when her teeth caught the sensitive pink bud, he had to grab her shoulders to stay upright.

"Stop - stop!"

"Did I hurt you? Gil, I'm sorry-"

"No." He smiles. "It's my turn." Two fingers plunged into the jar, and traced the inside of her bare thighs. Anne gasped at having his mouth so close to her core.

"Gil..." she protested when he reached for the apple butter again. "You can't- that's not-"

"I want to taste you," he begged raggedly. "Please, Anne, let me taste you."

She swallowed visibly. "Just your tongue?"

"Just my tongue," he promised, earning a slow nod of consent.

Anne gasped when he slathered her entrance. The apple butter felt odd on her private place, a bit dirty - but her qualms vanished when he withdrew his finger, to be replaced by his tongue. It circled the same way his finger had, but the sensation was different - softer, silken. Her breathing turned erratic as he pushed further into her: she lifted her hips experimentally, and was rewarded when he reached the spot that made her cry out.

Gilbert's moan reverberated in her as he went in deeper yet, working her up into a frenzy until she was writhing, pleading in a needy language of gasps and pants. His mouth latched to her, sucking and nipping and licking until she arched into him, arriving with a shout.

"Gil," she gasped, overwhelmed with an emotion she was only just getting used to feeling.

"Shh, it's alright." He coaxed her head on the pillow and pulled the quilt over them. "Close your eyes. I've got you."

* * *

Anne woke up disoriented. It was a moment before the confusion cleared, and she recognized her surroundings. Gilbert shifted beside her and groaned into consciousness. "You alright?" he asked, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

It was a ridiculous thing to do, considering everything they'd just done, but Anne blushed. "I don't understand why I felt so drained."

"We've been moving faster these past few days than we have in the last ten years," he caressed her cheek. "I might have pushed things along a bit too far, too soon. But it's so hard not too, when we're getting closer than ever...Is this going too fast for you, love?" he asked worriedly.

She ducked her head bashfully at the unfamiliar epithet. "No. I've been enjoying it - especially today."

He sighed from relief and deposited a kiss atop of her head. "Good. I'm glad."

"Is there any apple butter left?"

Gilbert chuckled at that. "We hardly went through the whole jar. If you'll remember, I was too busy eating you."

" _Gil_!" He grinned and ducked when she slapped his shoulder. Her blush deepened, but that didn't stop her from reaching for the jar and fitting her hand inside. "There's plenty left."

"Anne, what are you doing?"

She didn't respond, but looked down at the stiffness tenting his drawers, then back at him with a significant gaze. He squirmed into a sitting position. "Are you sure?"

"Certain."

No sooner had he removed the last of his undergarments that her hand closed around him, slick with apple butter. She coated his length, then gave one more stroke for good measure. By the time she brought her lips close to him, Gilbert was quivering with need.

Up close, he was big. Very big - too big. Emboldened by the desire to please him, Anne surmounted her fear and closed her mouth around his tip. Beneath the flavors of apple and spice, she could detect his own taste - a specific, musky blend that was strangely intoxicating. She took in more of him, swirling her tongue around him as she found an easy rhythm, back and forth.

Gilbert breathed choppily through his clenched teeth: he wasn't going to last if she kept it up. She had him encompassed in her hot, wet mouth, and he was about to lose his mind. A bead of sweat rolled down his temple form the herculean effort it took not to thrust into her.

"Anne," he groaned, on the verge of spilling. She hummed as she increased the suction, the vibrations around him pushing him over the edge.

" _Anne_!" He barely had time to grab her by the shoulder: she released him and got out of the way just before he shot, spiraling down an abyss of intense pleasure.

He opened his eyes at last to find her face hovering over his, looking at him in a way he didn't quite understand. "You enjoyed that," she stated, amazed - whether at him or herself, he wasn't sure.

"More than enjoyed." He caressed her cheek tenderly. "Anne..."

"I know. I felt it too."

His heart skipped a beat. "Tonight?"

"Tonight."

* * *

Gilbert inspected his reflection in the looking glass. He'd bathed and shaved again before supper; even combed his hair and slathered himself with a bit of the rosemary water he knew Anne liked. Smelling fresh, looking sharp... he wanted to be at his best. Tonight, they would not only make another fantasy come true - he was getting the opportunity to right a wrong. Anne would finally understand that Gilbert would never do anything to hurt her, not on purpose, and that he would respect her boundaries.

Anne entered the bedroom and shut the door behind her. Their eyes locked onto each other-

The next thing she knew, they were gripping each other, their mouths crushed to each other's in bruising kisses. Garments flew in the air as they tore each other's clothes off, and the mad pawing continued even as they tumbled onto the mattress.

"Gil," she panted between kisses. "The lights..."

Gilbert scrambled over to the nightstand, blowing one candle, then the next. With the lights out, Anne found the courage to remove her chemise. An excited tingle ran through her spine: they were both in the nude, in the dark.

"Anne," he whispered reverently, bracing himself on his strong arms over her. Her breathing grew more labored as he stroked her with his finger. He reveled in her eagerness, the way she clenched greedily around his digit. Satisfied that she was ready, he shifted to position his tip at her entrance. He started to sink into her, when her hands gripped his shoulders frantically.

"Gil- no. I can't."

Her words made him freeze. "What?"

"I can't go through with it." She pushed at his chest and sat up. "I just can't."

He blew out an incredulous sigh and sat up next to her, head in his hands, still panting heavily. " _Anne._ "

Not a few hours earlier, he'd moaned her name with passion, whispered it with incredible tenderness. Right now, he sounded profoundly exasperated. Her panic faded to regret. "I'm sorry, Gil. I'm so sorry."

"It's alright." He pushed off the bed and stood up.

"Where are you going?"

"I need to blow off some steam." He yanked on his trousers.

"I really am sorry, Gil."

"I know. It's alright. It really is." Gilbert threw on his shirt without buttoning it, and located his shoes. "I'll be back later. Don't wait up."

And just like that, Gilbert stormed off into the night, and Anne found herself alone in the bed.

* * *

 ***Apple butter: it's basically applesauce, but on crack. Seriously delicious.**


	8. Sunday

**A/N: Hooooo boy, here we go! The dreaded Sunday chapter.** **I fear this one may upset some of you - and that's alright. I mean, I'm not trying to deliberately upset anyone, but you're entitled to your reactions. There is some strong, graphic stuff implied in here, and I apologize if your senses are offended - but I won't apologize for posting it.**

 **Many thanks to all the readers, and special thanks to the reviewers! You guys make my day.**

* * *

When the service was over, Gilbert and Anne managed to duck out and keep polite greetings and conversations to a minimum. The Wrights were taking Jem and Walter along for a picnic, this freeing them to go for a walk on their own.

"What will it take?" asked Gilbert once they were alone on the sinewy path, safely out of hearing range. "For you to live under the same roof with our children, to be my wife... what will it take? What more do you need that I haven't given?"

Anne's eyes widened in surprise. She hadn't expected him to be so direct, so demanding. "I do want a life with you. I really do."

The intensity in his eyes didn't diminish. "But?"

"We're lacking in trust." Anne stopped walking to face him. "I want you to trust me again, and I want to trust you."

His eyebrows arched. "And do you think you've merited this trust?"

"Probably not," she conceded. "But without it, there's just no hope for us."

Gilbert found himself at a loss for words: her casual honesty threw him for a loop.

Misinterpreting his silence for reluctance, Anne tilted her chin up in a regal fashion. "Very well, then." She made to leave, but didn't go two steps before he'd caught her arm.

"Hold on! Just - hold on, alright?" he heaved. "You're right: we need trust. I probably haven't done much to make you trust me, but I'm a little in the dark as to what I've done specifically to earn your distrust. Can you please enlighten me?"

Anne sighed. "It's not so much what you've done - it just can't be helped. I know I messed up last night, changing my mind at the last minute, and I'm sorry."

"Are you still afraid it's going to hurt? Anne, you're not a maid anymore: you're different now. Your body has changed. You've given birth several times, and..." Though there wasn't another soul in sight, he still leaned in closer and lowered his voice. "You've enjoyed what we've done recently, haven't you? This week, all the playing, and experimenting... it was all practice, for what would happen after."

"You said we could take things slowly," she reminded him.

"We are! And we can continue to move slowly, we can even slow down - but I've got to know that we're both moving towards the same final goal."

Anne crossed her arms. "The goal might be the same, but it can't end the same way for us both."

Gilbert looked up at the loaded clouds rolling in. "We've been through this before," he said distractedly, estimating the amount of time they had before rain. "And Anne, just because you might get pregnant, just because you might carry the child inside of you, doesn't mean that I won't be afraid. I will be with you every step of the way, I promise."

"You can't, Gil! It's not that I don't want you to, it's that you physically can _not_ feel what I feel. Even before pregnancy, just the act of... it's not the same for you. It. Just. Isn't."

"So, it comes down to you trusting me. And me trusting you," he echoed her earlier statement.

"Yes." Anne's expression was resolved, but infinitely sad. The sky darkened: they might not find shelter before the storm.

"What if there was a way," he said slowly, "for me to even out the playing field?"

She blinked at him. "What do you mean?"

"If," Gilbert weighed his words carefully. "I could experience it the way you do...would that be enough?"

Anne frowned. "I suppose."

"Then come to my parents' house with me. There's something I'd like to show you."

* * *

Gilbert brought Anne up to his room and motioned for her to have a seat at his desk. Though the senior Blythes were out calling on the Bells, he still locked the door before reaching under his bed. He pulled out a book, blew some dust from its cover, and leafed through the pages.

"Here." He handed her the open volume. "Second page."

Bewildered, Anne flipped the open book around in her hands. The cover bore no title, no author, no marks whatsoever. Curious, she turned back to the selected passage and read.

Gilbert watched as her brow creased in consternation, waiting for understanding to descend upon her: he could see the very second the ball dropped, by the widening of her eyes and the small gasp.

"This is... goodness!"

An accurate summary: he added nothing, merely sustained her gaze.

"How would you...? I mean, how would we...?"

He sat down on his bed and averted his eyes to the ceiling. "There's a diagram further on."

More paper rustling, then a small "oh," followed by a second, higher pitched " _oh!_ "

Gilbert's face burned red: he didn't dare look at Anne's expression. "It should be fairly straight forward," he bit out crisply.

"Gil." There was an awed quality to the way she said his name. "You would do this for me?"

"Why not?" he tried for an easy tone, but didn't quite manage. "You've done it for me. And if it's done right, it's supposed to be... enjoyable."

The ensuing silence felt like it might stretch on till eternity. Gilbert waited in quiet mortification, and Anne made no noise whatsoever.

When she finally spoke, her voice was much softer. "If you'd agree to it - and especially if you think it might feel good - then, I'm all for it."

"Alright." He glanced at her from the corner of his eye. "Tonight?"

"Tonight."

* * *

Gilbert was nervous.

Mostly, it was a predictable fear of the unknown. What he'd suggested was a bit unnatural, after all - few enough men experienced this at the hands of their wives, and even fewer had published scientific articles. There existed much more literature describing the sentimental aspect of the act, but Gilbert hadn't wasted his time on those, deeming them irrelevant. As long as he was physically prepared, and that Anne had studied the diagram a bit and knew what she was doing, they should be fine. There would never be a lack of sentimentality where he and Anne were involved.

Some of his excitation stemmed from the fact that it might actually be more than fine. To quote the obscure untitled book that had been a pillar in his recent education: _"The initial breach may present a moderate amount of pain, as well as burning sensations. This can be avoided if performed by the tongue, which is more pliant, and comes naturally lubricated with saliva: however, it is notably more challenging to stimulate the gland, which is better reached by a finger, or more aptly by-"_

Every time he'd gotten up to this point, he'd firmly snapped the book shut: there was a reason why such things were unauthorized. Some of the descriptions went completely against law and nature: there really was such a thing as too much freedom, too much curiosity. The only reason it hadn't been thrown in the fire was its accuracy and lack of sentimentality or bias. Pure, cold facts founded on studies and research: it was science, and science was never explicitly vulgar.

But he could not completely shut down the idea that he might actually enjoy it. All the myths, the rumors regarding this taboo were somewhat familiar to him since adolescence: he'd simply assumed it didn't regard him. One instance of solitary experimentation up in his bedroom had proved to be fruitless, and confirmed that he simply wasn't built for that sort of sin. It was a relief to stand on the righteous side, to be separated from those who indulged in (and claimed to take pleasure) in the most unnatural acts.

Surely, there was less shame in performing such an act with one's own wife. Of course, on a moral stance, the waste of seed was still a sin: yet, if one was working towards planting seed the more conventional way, it could be pardoned. This was just that: an extension of their preparations.

Anyhow, there was no specific rule against his own enjoyment - nor hers, contrary to popular belief. From a scientific point of view, it was not only possible for a woman to take enjoyment, but preferable as well. The chauvinistic scholars who had somehow become authorities in that medical field irked him to no end with their pompous proclamations that women were entirely incapable of drive, want or pleasure. He'd never believed in that old tripe, and there _were_ the studies to prove so - too few, and deemed inconclusive or irrelevant when left into the wrong hands, but it _had_ been proven. Even medicine could not argue with human nature. The truth would come out some day, and Gilbert wished that he would live to see that shift in perception.

Anne entered the room, and his heart started racing. "Are you alright?" she asked.

He nodded. This was fine: it would be alright. "You're still dressed," he noted.

She smiled. "So are you."

Indeed he was. Nightclothes hit the floor, the larger robes first, then the thinner shirt and chemise and stockings, and finally the socks and underthings, all in a puddle of white on the wood. His shaft sprung free half-erect, as if uncertain whether to be enthusiastic or not: for this didn't really concern it. Gilbert encouraged it with a hand, reminding it that its presence was still required.

"Allow me," said Anne, gently brushing his hand away and replacing it with hers. His treacherous limb stiffened the second she touched him, her bold strokes making him hard as steel in a matter of seconds.

"Anne," he blew out a low puff of air. " _Ah!_ " his knees buckled when she reached underneath with her free hand to cup his sack, rolling it in her fingers, squeezing the sensitive bits softly through the loose skin. Where in the world had she learned to do that? When her mouth encompassed his tip, he threw his head back and moaned, grateful that he was now sitting on the edge of the bed. He might have collapsed to the floor otherwise. A brief moment of clarity allowed him to glimpse down at his length disappearing into her mouth, bringing him to a whole new level of bliss. Tongue swirling madly about him, fingers groping and squeezing, hands milking him, driving him wild - and then it all stopped.

"The oil," she asked. "Do you have it?"

It took his brain a moment to register the words. "Nightstand," he panted, affected by the abrupt halt. He watched, dazed, as Anne took the flask and poured some of its contents in her hand. The look she sent him then was adoring, and her hand resumed worshipping him. The slick, slippery grip was entirely new, and absolutely delicious. Gilbert let himself fall back on the bed, caught up in the ecstasy, the climb uphill so easy and full of promise.

"Are you ready?" she asked.

Words refused to cooperate with his mouth - all he could do was nod.

"I need to hear you say it."

"Ye- _ah_ - _AH,_ " he tried to formulate his assent, but the way she slipped fluidly from his base up to his tip made speech momentarily impossible.

"Gil. Look at me, love, and tell me that you want this."

One heavy eyelid opened, then another, and he was looking into a pool of greyish-green desire. "I want you," he said.

"Have I prepped you enough?" she asked calmly, but with some concern.

"Any more than this, and I might blow." He kissed the back of her oily hand and lay back. "I'm ready."

Anne smiled and touched his member, which had gone a violent shade of purple under the strain of its unfulfilled promise. Her hand moved down, each finger catching the ridge of the head as it slid by, making him groan, and his hips twitched of their own volition. While her left hand went in slow, bold motions up and down his erection, the right held his sack: her index reached below, further, until it reached the crevice. Her left hand steadily working Gilbert into a frenzy, she followed the line of the valley, pushing through well-toned muscles until her finger found the entrance.

Her breath caught, and she observed Gilbert's writhing form, panting and begging incoherently for a release that was suspended by her alternations of fast and slow strokes.

"Here I come, Gil," she whispered, and pressed gently at the hole: the edge puckered up against the pad of her finger.

"Anne," he breathed, tensing up. "Anne..."

At the speed of a glacier, she pushed forward, her eyes trained on the wanton expression on his face. Suddenly, his eyes widened, and his hand shot out to grab her wrist.

"Stop. Stop!"

She obeyed his command at once, alarmed by the horrified expression in his eyes. "Did I hurt you?"

He shook his head. "I can't. I thought I could, but I can't. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, but I just can't."

She silenced his hysterical jibbering with a kiss. "It's alright, darling."

Gilbert found himself pulled into her warm, forgiving embrace. He quivered against her, his heart beating painfully hard. Fear, and shame warred each other in his head, and a profound humility had taken over his chest.

Amidst his own turmoil, he was mortified at how aggressively he'd thrown himself at Anne in the past: little warning, almost no preparation, no understanding of the violence of the act. In his arrogance, he'd dismissed those articles that spoke of the mental repercussions of being penetrated. He'd thought himself impervious to all that romantic sentimentality.

Gilbert could see now how wrong he'd been. As he shook in the arms of the woman who'd so bravely submitted to him, he recognized with a great deal of shame that he would never be able to reciprocate. What he'd done to deserve her love and trust after all he'd put her through, he couldn't say: what he did know, was that he'd never put her through that again.

* * *

 **And thus ends the week, which leads up to the explosive session with Kenneth. If this leaves a poor aftertaste in your mouth, I suggest you re-read the last chapter of OOW, where things are getting better! I might continue to add some sexy anecdotes in this story (that is, if I have any readers left after this chapter).**

 **A brief note: I have nothing against homosexuality, nor sex in its various forms (as long as it's consensual). In trying to keep this somewhat realistic, I've made Gilbert a little bit of a forward thinker, but it seemed inaccurate to have him be cool with everything and anything, especially considering the social/religious background and the time context. I simply couldn't find a reason to make him suddenly so open-minded, when in canon he seems to become more conservative with age. If you disagree, I'm open to discussion!**


	9. Conceiving

**A/N: Jumping in time! This chapter starts way back at Gilbert and Anne's wedding night, and leaps forward several times from there. Thank you so much to all you readers, reviewers, one-time viewers and recurrent lurkers. Feeling the love!**

 **Warning: contains sexual violence, abuse, death and severe depression.**

* * *

 _His Joy_

The groom carried his bride up the stairs to her childhood room. Not the most romantic setting, but the bride had assured him she didn't mind. And frankly, at this point, neither did he. Her mellifluous voice floated above the buzz coming from outside, but he was deaf to both: all he could hear was his own ragged breathing. He was holding her - she was his at last. His wildest dreams had come true.

No, not quite - his very wildest were about to come true. He set her on her feet and stared down at his treasure: the woman he would spend the rest of his life worshipping. It might have been immoral, should have been illegal to love someone as much as he loved her. Tonight, he would show her the extent of his feelings for her, if such a thing was possible.

Freeing the bride from her dress was no mean feat, but the groom worked at it with knightly dligence, delivering the maiden fair from the confines of fabric. Each tiny button popped was a lock picked, each ribbon pulled a door kicked in, until finally she stood in a puddle of ivory silk, wearing wedding finery meant his eyes only.

A delicious illness took over him: his heart hammered painfully hard, and his pulse throbbed in his temples; sweat beaded on his brow, and heat crept from his loins up to his stomach. His fingers shook as he fumbled with the buttons of his finest shirt - impatience and need prevailed, and he gave up in favor of undoing his trousers.

Free at last from their garments, the groom deposited his fair bride on the bed and braced himself over her for a reassuring kiss, shielding her protectively with his body. She trembled with anticipation that matched his own, until at last they became one. He apologized for the pain inevitably caused by the breach with a tender kiss to her cheek, and gave in to the bliss of their union...

x-x-x

 _Her Joy_

The bride found herself being carried away from the party and up the stairs. She'd talked her husband-to-be out of spending a fortune on a hotel, though now she regretted it: her bedroom at Green Gables had been a sanctuary, a place to run when all the world was falling apart. Where would she run to now?

There was no need to run, of course. Her husband's arms would be her sanctuary from now on. Still, it was childish fear which made her ask: "You _will_ be gentle, won't you?"

He said nothing, just leered over her with a predacious gleam in his eyes: love, she assured herself. A deep, passionate kind of love that made her quiver nervously as he crawled on top of her.

"Darling," she gulped, "didn't you want to remove your shirt?"

He didn't bother responding to her ridiculous request. Of course, he could keep his shirt on if he so wished... but lying on her back in the immodest lace corset and translucent chemise, and nothing but the thinnest drawers to cover her bottom half, the bride couldn't help but feeling overpowered by the nearly fully clothed groom on top of her.

Her trepidation bubbled up, boiling into fear when he reached wordlessly between her legs and pushed himself inside her.

Overwhelmed with shock, she couldn't breathe. She tried to tell him to stop, to scream for help, but no sound came from within. He bent to kiss her cheek, and she tried to force words out: his ear was right there, an inch from her mouth, but not even a whisper passed her lips.

He shoved in deeper, so deep that she felt him at the back of her throat. Her whole body was invaded: robbed of her breath, of her voice, of her chastity, she never felt more powerless. She lay like a rag doll, motionless, helpless tears leaking from her eyes. One final thrust, and a demented groan, and it was all over: the beast changed back into the charming groom who kissed the tears from her face, whispered words of love in her hair, and fell asleep cradling her in his arms.

But for her, sleep never came.

* * *

 _Making Jem: him_

The young Doctor stirred and groaned. He felt stiff and sore everywhere, and there was an especially painful crick in his neck. He'd always hated sleeping anywhere but in his own bed, even as a young child: for as much as he loved the outdoors, he wouldn't attend the summer hay sleepovers hosted on the Wright's barn, or partake in Moody and Charlie's nighttime escapades. His father used to tease him for his lack of an adventurous spirit. If his father could see him now…

The Doctor shuddered at the thought. If his father could see him now, he'd likely tan his hide. And he'd deserve no less. His father was a formidable man, with a simple set of morals to which he adhered diligently. How the Doctor had admired him, wanted to emulate him, now more than ever.

Recent revelations had put John Blythe into new perspective. The young Doctor had once thought him a king. He'd been wrong, of course: the man was nothing short of divinity incarnate. Infinitely patient, kind to the point of embarrassment, self-sacrificing enough not to claim his rights as a husband, when they might put his wife in danger.

His father had recently admitted as much with the intent of giving him hope. "I loved your mother too much to risk her life, but she wanted a child more than anything else in the world - even more than me. I can't say that I blame her: it would have been a lonely life, just the two of us. Still, to watch her go through all that again was torture, the likes of which I'd gladly never know again. But I couldn't regret it, not then, not now - not when it gave us YOU. "

That lecture had been of no comfort at all. The young Doctor had stayed awake that night, wondering exactly what the moral of the story had been. Was he meant to risk her life once again for to bring to the world a new being, born with the curse of loneliness only children were to bear? Or was it that he ought to save his wife from a young death, and go through life without progeny?

He didn't mind that so much, though some animalistic need within him to reproduce might have contributed to his frustration at feeling helplessly impotent. No, what really hurt was being the only working doctor in town. Uncle Dave had emerged from his well-earned retirement long enough to give him time to grieve, but the young Doctor hadn't been permitted to wallow. While his wife was given free rein to loose herself in selfish misery, _he_ had to carry on. Someone needed to put food on the table for Susan to cook, and the bills wouldn't pay themselves.

The inhabitants of the Glen had warmed up to him, and weren't shy in calling him for anything, ranging from minor sprains to blazing fevers. Work had been a pleasant enough refuge, that is until Louisette McNathers had gone into labor, his first delivery since Joy had come and gone so quietly. It had been more difficult for the young Doctor than it had for the even younger parents to be: after no small amount of pushing and tugging, he found himself holding a live, kicking baby, howling indignantly at being propelled out of her warm liquid home in utero.

"Is she alright?" her mother had inquired at the young Doctor's worrisome silence.

"She's perfect," he'd croaked reverently, clearing his throat. The McNathers had been embarrassingly understanding then, allowing the Doctor to hold their second born a moment longer under the guise of an extensive examination. Two days later, Mrs. Samson gave birth to a healthy baby boy, and then the Gordy's twins arrived, and though Gilbert learned to school his reaction, it was still excruciating every time. He knew then that this career would be the end of him: he'd have to join a practice, a clinic perhaps, and recuse himself of pregnancies.

He'd said as much to his wife: she'd nodded, and said that he would do what he must. He'd taken her in his arms then, desperate to feel warmth, tenderness, _anything_ \- but he might have been hugging a porcelain doll, for all the detached cool which emanated from her. Still, his desire won out over his sorrows, and he'd sought comfort in his wife's body. Her lack of participation troubled him, but the young Doctor was used to shouldering the brunt of the work by now: what was a little bit more?

That night, similarly to the handful of other nights he'd bedded her, the pleasure had dissipated, and the enormous wave of self-loathing took over. How could he even think of putting her in that situation again? What if she became pregnant again?

But worse than that was the fear: what if she didn't? Would they live out the rest of their lives like this, sharing a house of few words and minimal civility? Working all day, eating their meals separately and waiting to die?

No: they could not... they _would_ not. They needed a child, and this time, the young Doctor would take all the care in the world so that no harm would come to his wife and baby.

x-x-x

 _Making Jem: her_

The young doctor's wife stared at the side of the room where the crib had stood, until the maid had finally removed it. Oh, what a fit she'd thrown that day - but neither her screaming, nor her tears would persuade Susan to bring back the piece of furniture. It had been Doctor Dear's orders, and far be it from her to speak against the Doctor Dear. Anyhow, it was for Mrs. Doctor's own good: she would see, grief would fade in time. She'd asked Susan whether she spoke from personal experience, to which the maid had pointedly insisted that one personally experienced Providence on a daily basis.

No one could understand what she was going through. Not Susan, nor the Doctor, not even his own parents, who had still gotten a healthy son for all their troubles. Even her own parents had been fortunate enough to pass on before she did. What she wouldn't give, to switch places with her daughter, the young doctor's wife thought, not for the first time.

Well, she certainly deserved it. In the beginning, getting pregnant quickly had been a relief: respite from having to go through the painful process of pleasing the young doctor. He wouldn't dream of claiming his marital rights, in her condition. But as she expanded, so did her worries.

What kind of woman resented being with child? Even Mrs. Hammond hadn't carried on as shamefully as the young doctor's wife had: staying up at night pacing, pressing her stomach as if trying to push the it back inside, making herself ill until the baby itself might come out. She'd even wished the child away: gone to sleep, hoping that she might wake up to have the baby bump out of sight - disappeared.

She should have know better than to make such a bargain, because her wicked wish was granted: but not before the babe was born. At the first push, the young doctor's wife was graced with sudden strength and power: she heaved and roared, turned herself inside out until her daughter was born. Proud and powerful, the lioness had fallen in love with her cub - only to be told that the little being would have but a little life.

There had been tears, of course, and rage: at nature and its irreversible cruelty, at mankind and its warped sense of self-importance, at herself for being wretchedly selfish. Hysterical screams, agonized wails, wounded whimpering until none was left. Now, she felt nothing but emptiness.

The only moments in which she did feel anything were when the young Doctor took her to bed. She might have refused him, but he'd given her plenty of time to recover physically. It was her obligation as his wife, anyway... and besides, it made her _feel_ : sharp pain sliced through the fog in which she spent her days. But the pain dulled every day... she wondered how she would cope once it stopped hurting.

* * *

 _Adding his Walter_

Little Jem Blythe needed a brother.

It was this thought which had Dr. Blythe turning in his work and heading home at a decent hour; which made him converse with Mrs. Dr. and Susan over supper; which kept him up when Mrs. Dr. woke up to feed their boy in the middle of the night.

He dragged himself up in a sitting position and rubbed the fatigue from his eyes, feeling old beyond his years. The strapping young lad with boundless energy had somehow become a serious, studious grump people called The Doctor (not even the Young Doctor anymore). Likewise, his Young Wife had gained twenty years in the past two: no sign of the firecracker she'd once been behind the bags under her flinty eyes.

He listened as Susan took over the sated babe, and touched his half-awake member. It wasn't as easy to stimulate its interest as it had previously been, but once there, the act of copulation was still satisfying.

Alright, that was a lie: Dr. Blythe loved losing himself in lovemaking. It was just that the opportunity seldom presented itself, and he suspected that once he succeeded in getting Mrs. Dr. pregnant again, he'd have to give up the notion altogether.

He would have to do without, find another pleasure. Losing himself in drink would render him a louse to society - and there were only so many books a man could read in one evening. Birdwatching would fit in his schedule when he was coming home from emergency calls. And what of winter, when the weather chased the finest wings to warmer places? He might as well take up crocheting, seeing as he would be stripped of occasions to prove his manliness.

Mrs. Dr. returned to the room; the faint light of her candle cast a gentle halo above her russet crown, her simple white nightgown billowing ethereally behind her. Dr. Blythe sat up straighter, and so did his virility.

"I didn't mean to wake you," she apologized.

"S'alright," a yawn interrupted his advances. Mrs. Dr. worried her lip.

"We ought to get some rest," she said. "It'll be light out soon."

"I'm not that tired," he tried in his best suggestive tone, the one that used to get him anything he wanted. For a brief moment, her silence led him to anticipate another excuse - but she blew out the candle and hitched her nightgown up without a fuss.

Hating himself for doing this to her when she was tired, despising _himself_ for having no control, wanting this more than anything, Dr. Blythe leaned in to kiss his wife gently on the lips. She twitched when he caressed her breasts through the cotton of her collar, so he did not linger there.

He touched himself instead, ensuring with a single stroke that he was hard as could be before inserting himself into her, a key in a tight fitting lock: the heavenly squeeze sent his eyes rolling back, and a moan snaked out from his throat. Two thrusts in, he already felt on the cusp: his herculean efforts to prolong the sensations longer were somewhat rewarded, and when he did arrive, it was with a stifled shout.

This was the part he loved the least: the bit when he came back down to Earth, to find his wife staring impassively at the ceiling. Oh, he knew she was faking it: later, when she thought he'd fallen asleep, she would muffle horrible sobs in her pillow. He would listen like a coward, unable to comfort his wife, unwilling to apologize for being her husband, and fall asleep calling himself every name in the book.

x-x-x

 _Adding her Walter_

Mrs. Dr. wanted a third chance.

She'd messed up the first one terribly: that was her fault, and she'd take the blame.

She'd tried the second time - really, she had, but it couldn't be helped. Holding her son was like holding a viper, only scarier and slipperier. His shrieks terrified her, his silence petrified her; his greedy appetite had done a pretty number on her breasts, and his frustrated little fists had caught her chin, her throat, her arms - any part of her within reach - abuse, the likes of which she hadn't been subject to since her own earliest childhood memories.

She wanted to love him: on some level, she must, or why would she be upset that he didn't love her? Susan, the Doctor - her son preferred anyone's company to hers, to the point where she believed he was as uncomfortable with the family ties between the two of them as she was.

Still, Mrs. Dr. wasn't willing to give up: she and the Doctor both agreed that Jem needed a brother. Growing up an only child, smothered by three adults jumping at every one of his cries, would spoil him terribly: without a sibling, he would get lonely, and when he came of age, the crushing responsibility of being everything to his parents would do him in.

And so, when the Doctor propositioned her, she complied: grit her teeth and allowed herself to be penetrated, hoping that each thrust would be the last. Having done his part, the Doctor would roll onto his side and drift into an easy sleep, and Mrs. Dr. would weep privately into her pillow, praying for another chance, vowing that she would do better this time.

* * *

 _The Two Together_

"Darling?"

"Yes, dear?" called Anne without looking up from the spackle she was spreading on the wall.

"Would you come over here? There's something I'd like to show you."

She grinned at Gilbert's breezy tone. His attempts to conceal his enthusiasm were futile: reluctant though he'd been at first to engage in such a time and energy consuming project, her husband was now fully invested in the renovations of the new Blythe Manor. This had been prompted in part by his realization that rebuilding a house meant playing with an array of what she'd come to call his 'grown up toys' - something which earned Gilbert endless ribbing from his wife.

"Just a minute!" she called back, and quickly patched the hole before setting the scraper down and exiting the room, bringing a cloth with her to wipe the white substance from her fingers.

Gilbert, as usual, was trying to do a two person job singlehanded: he'd managed so far, holding the plank against the wall in his left hand, while the right hand wielded the hammer that was nailing it in place. Of course, being right-handed meant that the perfectly perpendicular slant of the plank was hard to keep with the left, and one-handed hammering without free fingers to drive the nail in place meant a lot of cursing at inanimate objects, and inevitably starting from scratch.

"Awmosh done," he articulated around the extra nails between his teeth when Anne appeared in the doorway. Perspiring from concentration and physical effort, he sunk the nail into the wall and stood up in triumph.

"There!" he beamed at his wife, proudly displaying his work. Anne tilted her head, puzzled.

"I surrender," she looked back at him. "What is it? The beginnings of a staircase? A very low shelf?"

Her teasing made him scowl. "You honestly couldn't tell?"

"I'm sorry, Gil," she shrugged helplessly, and he nearly grinned at the spot of spackle decorating her delicate nose. "What is it?"

"A window seat," he said gruffly, feeling unaccountably self-conscious as her smile turned salacious.

"A window seat?" she waggled her eyebrows at him. "You mean, another spot where we could - Jem, darling, I didn't hear you come in! Mind those nails your father left on the floor."

"Bully!" exclaimed the boy, lifting the weapon his father had abandoned and inspecting it reverently. "Can I use this one, Dad?"

"No!" the Doctor and his wife exclaimed simultaneously.

"Fine," Jem set the hammer down. "Can me and Walt go swimming, now? It's so hot!"

"One at a time in the water, no longer than an hour."

"Dad, we're not babies! I'm a really good swimmer. Besides, I won't let anything happen to Walt."

"We know you won't, dear, but you know the rules," said Anne.

"It's either that, or you can wait for me to come with you in thirty minutes," added Gilbert.

Jem's pout was a perfect replica of his father's. "Fine, we'll take turns," he conceded. The doctor's wife waited patiently for her young sulking prince to cross the bare living room, frowning at how odd his parents were acting, but not caring enough to delay his trip to the pond.

"Now, where were we?" asked Gilbert once the door slammed shut behind their son.

"You were showing me our new nest." Anne leaned over it. "I'm not sure it's quite sturdy enough for our style of... sitting."

"Obviously, I'm not done," he grumbled. "It's more of a one person nook, anyway." This earned him her curious attention, and he turned to hide his blush. "I remembered how much I liked you in that seat, back in the Glen... In the early days, you used to sit at the window almost every night and wait for me to get home. And... I just - liked finding you there."

"I dozed off half the time," Anne muttered, a bit surprised that he'd enjoyed her pining for him, even in her sleep.

"Even better." It was his turn to grin wolfishly. "I'd get to watch you for a spell, without you getting all shy. Drink in your beauty," he advanced on her, "count your freckles."

"While I was sleeping?"

"I couldn't help it," he shrugged unapologetically. "I missed you when I was at work. And finding you there meant you missed me, too."

"Of course I missed you," Anne swallowed past a lump in her throat. "Gil- even if you didn't build me a nook here, I'd wait for you to come home. I will be here every single night, waiting for you."

"Promise?" he asked, stroking her cheek.

"I promise," she vowed, blinking back tears of regret that confirmation was even needed. _I'll never leave you again_ , was the unspoken part of her oath.

"Right here, by this window?" he tucked a loose strand of auburn behind her ear.

"If that's where you want me, then, yes." She would have agreed to anyplace for him.

Dr. Blythe eyed the long window that gave on their green acres. "We'll need thick drapes."

Anne frowned up at him. "Why would we need thick drapes in a sitting room?"

"For privacy, of course" he explained, waiting for the ball to drop.

His wife, quick on the uptake, smacked him on the arm. "Gil!"

"What?" he laughed. "You started it!"

"That was before I understood how romantic you were being. It's a sacred spot to me now, Gil - let us not defile it."

"Too late," he caught her by the waist, causing her to yelp giddily. "You've already corrupted my thoughts. Besides, we've got to create some memories to keep you warm at night while you're pining for me."

"Pining-! The nerve of you... suggesting that... uh- that...ah!" she gasped as he pinned her against the bare wall, moving his knee between her legs with just the right amount of pressure.

"Let's christen this room," he said, same as he had for the master bedroom, the wash room, the kitchen, and one incredibly dusty trip up to the attic.

"No... drapes..." panted Anne, but her fingers were already unsnapping his shirt buttons.

"There's no one around for miles," her husband assured her, reaching under her skirts. "We own this land now... the boys are o-OH!" he shouted when she reached in his drawers and stroked him firmly. Words turned into grunts and moans as they worked each other up, taking pleasure in each other's arousal.

"Gil," begged Anne as she convulsed around his fingers. "Please..."

"Tell me what you want," he grunted through a clenched jaw, unsure whether he'd last much longer. "Anything, I'll give you anything."

"I want you - inside me."

That was all the invitation he needed, but he still paused to check her face for any sign of fear or discomfort. Finding nothing but want and lust, he lifted her up higher against the wall and reached under her petticoat so that he could insert himself in her: slowly, and with great care, he slid in. "Alright?"

Anne thought her heart might burst. Her beautiful husband, disheveled and covered in sawdust, was gazing at her with caring eyes. Valiant efforts to put his own needs on hold for the sake of her comfort made beads of sweat trickle from his damp, dark curls down his temple, along the side of his face all the way to his clean shaven jaw.

She leaned in for a thirsty kiss in guise of reply. He responded in kind, waiting for her to wrap her legs around his waist to start moving inside her. Small thrusts at first that made them both pant heavily, then broadening his rocking so that he could reach deeper, inching closer to that spot- _that_ spot right there, which made her cry out sharply and clench harder on his shoulders.

Anne desperately tried to tell him with words how good it felt, but all that tumbled from her mouth was a series of _oohs_ and _ahs_ and _oh Gils._ That was fine, because Gilbert was fluent in Anne's gibberish: he answered in his own guttural vernacular, growling and groaning and moaning, their exclamations speeding up with the rhythm they pounded into the wall.

Gilbert paused to blink sweat from his eyes. He was one thrust away from turning into a quivering puddle of jelly, and he wanted to make sure that she was ready to take the plunge with him. He looked up at his wanton dryad: flushed face, dilated pupils, jaw slack... she was as far gone as he was. Gritting his teeth, he threw his head back and flung them over the precipice of pleasure, holding her tightly as they fell together.


	10. Cooling off

**Thanks to all who read and comment on these naughty (and sometimes depressing) anecdotes. This chapter is a response to the requests for fluffy sex: hope this satisfies!**

 **A wink to my fanfic pal who is almost as obsessed with messing up Gilbert's curls as I am: you know who you are! I thought of you several times writing this.**

 **Also, I'm following no particular chronological order for this chapter and the following ones in M land - if you're wondering, this particular one takes place a little before the previous chapter's ending.**

 **Thank you, and enjoy!**

* * *

At half past midnight, two tall figures in white haunted the forest. They drifted down the path, scaring the nocturnal woodland critters on their way: foxes scurried off under the protective bushes, and squirrels scampered to safety up the nearest trees. A lone doe looked up from her leafy snack and froze before leaping gracefully into the darkness. From their hiding places, the badgers and the owls watched as the ghostly apparitions glided gracefully along.

"Ow!" The rounder of the two stumbled.

"Careful!" The taller figure caught her before she could topple over. "I told you, you should have worn your own shoes."

"Mine hardly fit anymore. My feet are so swollen..."

"Or better yet - go barefoot, and I'll carry you."

"It's far too hot for that. Come, now, we're almost there!"

And indeed they were: in less than ten paces, they'd reached the grassy banks of the pond. Toads paused mid-croak to appreciate the sight of the taller specimen disrobing: rid of his loose-fitting summer nightshirt, there was nothing ghostly about a half-nude Gilbert Blythe.

His wife, however, remained a spectral sight in her billowy white gown: her skin shone almost blue under the moon light, and her recently bared feet made it seem as though she hardly touched the ground.

"You're not going in dressed, are you?" asked her husband.

"What does it matter?" she asked, sitting by the edge to test the water with her legs, and moaning in luxurious relief at its coolness - a most welcome contrast to the suffocating estival heat. "It's too dark to see anything, anyway."

"You'll be cold on the way home," he warned.

"And I'll have you to keep me warm." She eased herself down into the murky depths, one inch at a time. "Oh, it's _blissful_ \- stop pouting, darling: come and join me. The water is delightfully cool."

She heard his huff of impatience, followed by the faint rustling of his underclothes being shucked; but instead of lowering himself in slowly as she had, he launched himself from the edge headfirst. Anne admired his graceful dive, and watched as he reached the far end of the pond in precise, purposeful strokes.

She leaned her head back on the bank and sighed contently. Sitting at the edge, the water reached up to her shoulders. The soaked fabric of her white cotton nightgown clung to her bosom, hugging her at the ever-so-slightly-expanding waist, and floated loosely in the water around her half-bared legs, almost like a gauzy tutu: if she closed her eyes, she could imagine herself a Parisian ballerina leaping weightlessly across the stage, her leg poised at an impossibly beautiful angle...

"Foot cramp?"

She jolted from her reverie to find her her husband's twin hazels peering at her. Apparently tired of swimming laps, he'd come to a halt in front of her; Anne took advantage of the fact, gladly exchanging her girlish fantasy for the much more adult one, treading the water before her with his bare arms.

"I'm fine," she said absently, admiring the illuminated side of his water-beaded neck. More clear pearls of liquid adorned his lips and lashes: his brown locks, a bit straighter and a lot darker when soaked, flopped endearingly over his brow.

"I'll say," he smirked. "But seriously - feeling better, now?"

"Very much so," she smiled back. "So much, in fact, that I think I'd like to sleep here tonight."

"What, and exchange your cherry tree for slimy seaweed?"

Anne hid her amusement under feigned contempt. "That was clearly meant to be a _springtime_ dream," she explained. "Look at the leaves in the trees: do you see a cool April breeze to lull me to sleep?"

"Er..."

"No! Not so much as a twitch! Summertime is no time for sleeping in trees, or wilting away on one's overheated mattress on an airless night: it's for refreshing sources and flowing streams, and I am going to sit here and enjoy the cool until I'm well and ready to leave!"

"Alright, alright!" Gilbert raised his palms defensively, desperately fighting to keep the grin from his face. When she tilted her face in petulant victory, he couldn't help but lean in and kiss the tip of her proud nose.

"Let your hair down," he whispered his request. "Get it wet."

"Oh, alright," Anne conceded easily and unbraided her: depositing the ribbons safely on the grass behind her, she took a deep breath and dunked herself all the way underwater.

Since that day by the bridge, they'd paid homage to the unfortunate Lily Maid by reenacting her rescue (though the endings were usually reinterpreted to better suit a not-so-helpless Elaine, and a less-than-virtuous Lancelot). They'd revisited the creek on several occasions, filled up their own tub at home when the weather didn't allow for an outdoors dip - even made creative use of the Blythes' Farm horse trough. A hundred kisses hadn't mollified Anne after _that_ particular adventure had been sprung on her, but Gilbert had found a way to apologize which had left her moaning and begging for more.

Truth be told, he was getting ready to do some moaning and begging of his own. Anne emerged, her orange flames extinguished to liquid auburn.

"Beautiful." He said it not as a compliment, but rather like a prayer, with awed reverence. She swiped the water from her eyes and blinked: the translucent cotton of her bodice revealed piercing nipples just above the surface, making him growl and throw himself at her.

"Gil!" she exclaimed gleefully, but her giggles died out when his mouth latched on her neck, giving place to a soulful "oh...oh, _Gil..._ "

"Anne," he breathed the water from her lips.

Her greenish-grey eyes shone innocently in the night. "Yes, Gil?"

"Wait right here."

"Where would I go-oooooh-oh...OH!" was all she could manage: he'd ducked beneath the surface, pushed apart her thighs and had wasted no time in finding the slit in her drawers. Underwater, in the dark, it didn't matter - he would locate her core in a heartbeat, and work relentlessly towards her release.

It didn't take much these days: the changes her body was undergoing left her more sensitive than usual, and Anne bit her lip, swallowing back the loud screams which threatened to escape her mouth. Gilbert had felt her seize against his tongue, and came back to the surface to catch his breath, panting as loudly as she was.

"Darling." Anne lovingly slicked his wet hair back from his face. "Shall I return the favor?"

"Would you?"

"I most certainly would."

"My sweet... Stay right where you are."

"I wasn't planning on leaving," she pointed out with an amused quirk of her lips.

"Smart aleck," he grunted as he hoisted himself up on the bank. No sooner had he turned himself around to sit on the edge, that her mouth was on him, enveloping his stiffness. Her fists gripped the grass on either sides of his thighs as she sucked fast and hard, then slowed down, releasing him to lick his length, and taking him in as deep as she could again.

"Anne," she felt his hands tug at her sodden, silken locks. "I'm not going to last if you keep going..."

"Then don't last," she whispered at his tip, licking the contour of its ridge in a way she knew would drive him wild. His sack tightened, and a powerful tremor worked up from his toes to his stomach, making his legs wobble like jelly.

"Can I be inside you?" he pleaded.

Anne smiled. "You may if you get back in here, because I'm not climbing out."

She hadn't finished her sentence before Gilbert had plunged back in the pond, ungallantly splashing her. Despite his urge to drive himself into her like a hare during mating season, he took the time to clear the water from her eyes, as well as his own. "Alright?"

"Alright," she consented, and he inserted himself slower than his patience would allow. He couldn't breathe, wouldn't breathe; his eyes fixed on her face, searching for the discomfort that never came. She was so tight, he could feel her every inhale and exhale, even the batting of her lashes...

As if the fit wasn't tight enough, she squeezed her inner muscles around him, making his eyes roll to the back of his head. Anne held on to his shoulders and moved herself up and down with a weightlessness they could only dream of recreating on land. Gilbert endured the slow torture for as long as he was able, channeling the signature Blythe patience until he could wait no longer: his hips took over, bucking into action. His fists threatened to rip the sod from the surface to which he clung as he pounded into her center, angling his thrusts so that he wouldn't bump her stomach (though she'd insisted it didn't hurt: he still wouldn't take the chance to upset her or the life form growing inside her).

Her gasps turned into garbled cries, each more wanton and desperate than the last, as he brought them closer to the precipice, faster, and harder, and faster yet, until they shouted out in unison. So mind blowing was the climax, it left her incapable of breathing: only when a cold shot entered her head through her nose did Anne realize she was submerged, and inhaling pond water.

A sputtering Gilbert pulled her back to the surface with a strong arm. "I forgot myself there, for a moment," he apologized sheepishly between coughs. "Are you alright, love?"

"Fine," she wheezed, shaking the water from her eyes and trying to clear her sinuses. "I'm fine," she assured him when he began to apologize again. "Honestly, I would be more upset if you _hadn't_ forgotten yourself."

"You can't blame me being careful," he said, raking his finger through his drenched hair. The look Anne sent him then almost had Gilbert pouncing on her all over again.

"You don't need to be careful!" she argued with a smile. "You told me yourself - babies are resilient."

"It's not her I'm worried about." His eyes went incredibly tender.

"You mean _him_ ," Anne corrected gently, bringing her mouth tantalizingly close to his. "And I'm fine. I don't want you to worry anymore - you shouldn't have to worry, darling."

"I'm not worried," Gilbert brushed her lips with his. "Doesn't mean I can't be careful, though."

"Oh, you stubborn man!" Anne kissed her hardheaded, softhearted husband and pushed herself back towards the edge. "Let's not argue - just bring me home."

"I thought you wanted to spend the night," Gilbert teased, pulling himself up onto the bank.

"I said I wanted to stay until I was cool, which I am. Now, be a gentleman, and help your pregnant wife out?"

Two careful doctor's hands clamped around her upper arms, and heaved her soaked form onto dry land: he waited for her to gain her balance and start wringing out her gown, before slipping into his nightshirt. "Hold these," he instructed, handing Anne the shoes she'd borrowed, and sweeping her up in his arms.

"Gil-"

"Hush," he interrupted her protests. "Let me be the hero, this time."

She rested her head on his shoulders, burying her grin in the crook of his neck: and the valiant Lancelot carried his dripping Elaine back to their brand new castle, where their two little princes slept through the hot night.


End file.
